


Howling at the moon.

by LokiBitch07



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, But the rape is between wolves, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Gay Sherlock, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hospitals, Knotting, M/M, Mating, Prison, Really gay Werewolves, Science Experiments, Straight John, not between humans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 40,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiBitch07/pseuds/LokiBitch07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John catches a mysterious disease during his military mission in Afghanistan.<br/>He is injured and wakes in a closed off, military hospital.<br/>He has been bitten by a werewolf and turns at the first full moon.<br/>John has to deal with the new situation and other weres are put into his cell to see his reaction.<br/>The first one is another alpha.<br/>The second is Sherlock, an omega.<br/>And John can’t hold his wolf back from claiming what he knows is his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Attack

**Author's Note:**

> This work does contain mentions rape between wolves at one point, but once that is over there is quite a bit of explicit but happy Johnlock that I hope you will enjoy.
> 
> Please note that I don't work with a beta at this point which is a personal preference.  
> Leaving comments and kudos is a great way to repay any artist with love and I am excited about each and every one of them. Seriously. 
> 
> This work has been translated into Chinese by mangooman (which is ridiculous and amazing) , you can find it here: http://www.movietvslash.com/thread-108644-1-1.html
> 
>  
> 
> x

It had been a bad day.  
A very bad day indeed.

John had been called to the front of battle, as there were many wounded and dead, no sleep or rest for the last 36 hours, his only focus on the battlefield, pulling the wounded aside, allocating them into cars depending on their injuries, administering first aid where needed and eased pain where necessary. 

He had to walk past more than one comrade writhing bleeding on the floor, reaching out for him, realizing that he could not offer any help apart from comfort. John would let fingers ease over sweaty brows, ease anxiety with a calm hand, and then he would have to carry on.  
If they were too close to death, he had to leave them.  
Medication was sparse and needed for the living. 

His heart had been broken and mended long ago, and this was what war was all about. 

Then, there was the night, where he and his small groups of medics and roughly 10 soldiers were caught between enemy lines and their base.  
They were forced to find cover as the fighting flared up all around them and communication was interrupted, and had chosen an empty house in the desert to rest until the morning.  
Three men stayed with the cars, taking the first watch while the rest crowded into the small hut, laying their blankets on the floor, huddling close together to keep warm in the freezing cold of the desert.  
Some things were never discussed, and it was too cold to feel any kind of shame.  
John huddled in-between two large men, dreaming of his last girlfriend, trying for one night to forget the war. 

 

They came in the middle of the night, with the full moon illuminating their way. 

It must have been two or three, but could have been more than a hundred for all that John could remember.  
The wolves descended on them out of the darkness, ripping throats with wet sounds, murdering most of the group within less than 5 min.  
John had stepped out to relieve himself and could hear the screams and gun shots from behind the bush he had chosen, hurrying back with his gun cocked at his side, watching with horror as the dark, nightmarish creatures stormed the hut, screams erupting around them. 

He fired into the darkness and the last thing he saw was a shadow catapulting itself towards him, a flaring pain at his shoulder and then darkness.

 

Darkness and Pain.

Pain and Darkness.

Forever.


	2. Survivor

There were three survivors. 

John’s left shoulder had been mauled, a deep, gashing wound from a bite that was in the end accredited to an animal attack.  
The other two members of the team that survived were a young female medic as well as an elder soldier who had watched over the cars when they were attacked.

The soldier died from his wounds within the next week, taking a fever and burning, in the end never waking from the induced coma he was kept in. 

 

John tried talking to the doctors in the beginning, clearly in shock, describing what he had seen, but his body soon reacted to his injuries, and he shook under his blankets with his rising body temperature.  
He was fighting an infection that was spreading all over his body, ripping his mind into the depths of hell, dark, howling sounds escaping his throat as the medics tied him to his bed, restraining his flaring limps.

Pain took him away once more. 

 

Dr. John Watson woke up much later in a large, white tiled room that was surrounded by what seemed to be glass walls.  
He felt as weak as a new-born kitten. 

John blinked several times, trying to focus on his surroundings, not knowing where he was or what had happened to him.

He lifted his hand, noting that it was pale and thinner than it used to be, telling him that quite some time must have passed since he had fallen sick. His fingers were shaking as he lowered them to his face, running them along the growth there, hair that no longer could be called stubble but instead would have to be categorized as a beard.  
His fingers kept wandering and he noted that the hair on his head had also grown unaccustomed long, falling slightly shaggy over his ears and into his neck, pulling a frown of distaste onto the Doctor’s features.  
When he tried to push himself up a hot pain flared into his shoulder, and with a quick glance he noted the large, angry red and barely healed scar on his side that radiated heated pain all over his body.  
He had been asleep long enough to heal.  
But he realized he would carry this scar for the rest of his life.

John pushed his legs over the steel metal frame of his small bed that seemed to be bolted into the floor and had to stop as dizziness engulfed his mind. 

He sat and waited, breathing deeply into his stomach as nausea flooded through him. 

 

John’s first impression was that he was in a hospital, his arm attached to a heart rate monitor and a clear liquid was dripping through an IV in a slow and steady rhythm into his veins.  
However, as his eyes wandered from the needles that were placed in his flesh at the back of his hand towards the IV, he noted that the tubes were led through holes in the glass to the machines on the outside.  
He was fully isolated.  
The setup of a high-contamination ward. 

John took a deep breath and his gaze continued to wander through the room.  
Apart from the bed and a small metal table and chair (which both seemed to be also bolted to the floor) the room was empty.  
There were no flowers or Get-well cards to be seen anywhere – not that he had many friends and his sister would probably be too drunk to remember, but the military normally issued some kind of note when a soldier was injured.  
His room was surrounded by high glass walls, located in the middle of the vast hall, one of four cells in a row, measuring approx. 4 by 4 m. Around 3.5 m above his head was what seemed to be a complicated ventilation system, once more underlining his suspicion that he was indeed kept in a specialised contamination hospital.  
The dogs…the animals must have carried some kind of foreign virus or pathogen that he was now carrying.  
And it was dangerous enough to warrant the military to put him away into a specialized unit. 

Once his nausea settled, he placed his naked feet onto the cold floor and carefully placed pressure onto them, giving his legs time to adjust to his weight.  
John carefully removed the needles that were lodged into his arms one by one, setting the beeping machine into a frenzy, the sound digging painfully into his brain. 

He swayed slightly, a shiver running over his body, realizing that the only thing he was wearing were white pyjama-like cotton pants and nothing else.  
Ignoring the continuous beeping sound behind him he carefully shuffled towards the table, focusing on the plastic pitcher filled with what seemed to be water and a dark blue plastic cup.  
John’s throat was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, and when he finally reached the table he had to force himself to take only small sips of the cold water to allow his stomach to adjust after such a long time without nourishment. 

His eyes continued to wander, and he focused on the 3 rooms next to him, his own located to the farthest on the left.  
The bed and cell next to him was empty, but in the one in the middle he could see auburn hair peeking from under the white covers of the metal bed.  
As John had been, the figure was connected to an IV and several blinking machines through sealed-off holes in the glass. 

The person did not react to the continuous beeping that shrieked through the hall, probably a coma, but within minutes John heard a door open.  
Apparently someone else had heard. 

John watched as three white figures emerged, presumably doctors, surrounded by six heavily armed soldiers in their uniforms. They continued towards his cell, and John placed his cup back on the table and slowly made his way to the glass, carefully shuffling towards the door. 

He straightened his back and stood, trying to ignore unusual pounding behind his eyes as the doctors and soldiers finally reached the glass wall that kept John confined.

 

“Dr. Watson.” The dark tone of a grey-haired, steely looking woman ripped him from his thoughts, and he once more stood attention.  
The elder doctor as well as two men, one older and one younger stood in front of the glass, three pairs of eyes fasting onto John in barely suppressed interest. 

“How are you feeling, Dr. Watson?” 

John could see the blue-grey eyes of the main doctor flick over his body and wound.

“I am…” he coughed, suddenly realizing the dryness of his throat, and gagged for another moment before he managed to continue. “I am not sure. What has happened? Where am I?”  
“I am sorry, Dr. Watson, we had not expected you to wake this early, your IV has kept you sufficiently nourished and hydrated.”  
John waited for a second, looking at the empty smiles.  
Then he realized there would be nothing else.  
The answer of a doctor who did not want to reveal anything.  
He nodded, the movement sending waves of pain into his shoulder, and he had to reach out to hold himself on the glass as he stumbled. 

 

The reaction of the others startled him. 

 

The doctor stepped back, eyes wide and horrified, as the soldiers raised their machine guns and pointed them it at John standing across the glass, who slowly raised his hands over his head, holding his breath. 

The lady doctor took a deep breath and raised her hand, a gesture to lower the guns.  
John did not move, his eyes fixed on the AK-47s, only allowing his breath to escape as he could see all of them pointing to the floor once more.

“I am sorry about that Dr. Watson. Please, my name is Dr. Gretchen Murphy, I am the doctor on your case. You have had an accident in Afghanistan and we are currently keeping you for surveillance.”

John nodded, slightly dazed, still staring at the soldiers positioned behind her, their eyes focused on him. 

“What is my diagnosis?”

His eyes swept over the room once more, careful not to make any abrupt movements, very aware of the soldiers behind the medical staff, following his every move with large eyes.  
Dr. Murphy stayed calm, a fake smile spreading over her lips: “There is nothing to be worried about Dr. Watson, we think it may be a new case of rabies that you have been exposed to, but we just need to run a couple more test to make sure we can release you. “  
She gave him another nod.  
“As the…virus you contracted is rather unusual you have been brought to a special military facility where we have the necessary equipment that is needed. We should be able to clear you in no time.”

John closed his eyes and nodded. 

He knew from his own experience that he would not get any more information. 

The lady doctor crossed her arms in front of her ample bosom. “I am sorry we cannot bring you any magazines, but the wall to your left has a built in TV-screen you can use by pressing on the glass.  
Also, if there is ever an emergency, there is the red button to the left of your bed that you can press, and someone will be with you within minutes.  
Thank you for your cooperation Dr. Watson.”

With that the team turned and left, after smiling and nodding at him.  
John stood and watched them leave, and once they were gone he stumbled back to his bed, his body tired and weak, pulling him into a dreamless state once more, resting.


	3. Transformation

And then it happened. 

It was a Tuesday night according to the digital display on the wall, and John paced the floor, red hot agitation burning under his skin as his stomach bubbled in an anxiety he had not felt before. 

The wavering Heat was pulsing in the rhythm of his heartbeat, thundering in his ears.  
John felt like scratching off his skin with his nails. 

Pain.

Pain flaring, starting from the bottom of his spine, crawling along his back into his arms, breaking his bones in several places, agony screaming into his brain as his muscles stretched and fattened, ripping from the bottom of his bones and curling into new places, stretching his slender frame, pulling his skin apart.  
He howled his misery into the empty space.  
John noted from very far away that the girl two cells down, her fragile body in spasms in her bed, limps flaying as he could hear her groaning from the depth of her coma. 

And then the claws broke through his skin, pushing his nails from his sockets, ripping agonizing shrieks from his raw throat, forcing him down into his knees.  
It was surprising that none of the doctors were there to help him, and he screeched, pushing the red button that he was told to use only in emergencies again and again, but no one answered his desperate pleas. 

Dr. John Watson could feel his mind submerging in a thick, red cloud of Lust, Want, Need and HUNGER, HUNGER that swept everything else from his mind, as he glanced down and saw his front legs (arms…they used to be arms, but not anymore, now they were legs ending in large paws) scrabbling at the floor.  
John could feel the bones in his head shifting, his nose breaking with a torturous crunch as it was pushed forward into a muzzle, his teeth falling form his mouth as canines started to emerge and adding 5 more per row, as his human teeth fell onto the floor like pearls. 

John arched into the pain and away from it as he howled and screamed.

Finally he collapsed as his body had undergone the transformation from man to wolf, leaving John with a sand-colored coat and dark brown eyes, spittle running in long strands from his snout, collecting between his feet.  
And then the WANT, the NEED drove him against the walls, to be able to run, to explore, to SEARCH to still his HUNGER, his NEED, looking for FLESH AND TO MATE AND BE SATISFIED.

John saw everything that happened through something like dark red Fog, his mind merging with the Wolf who was terrified and angry about his new surrounding and his host, and tried to run.

There was no communication between the two creatures, and in the end John pulled back into a corner of his mind as the Wolf screamed and raged, hurling himself against the glass wall again and again, howling and raging, trying to escape their confinement. 

 

The next day the doctor found himself on the floor in a small puddle of blood that had coagulated under his head, presumably from when the Wolf had continued to run against the glass in an effort to break his way through.  
His whole body radiated pain he had never experienced before, and a shadow of realization skipped through his mind as he remembered his bones breaking, his whole body shifting through a change that had turned…had turned….

With a start he sat up, as he remembered. 

It was not much, but there were bits and pieces of memory, of the pain and the need and the POWER he had felt in his changed body as he had paced up and down the walls of his confinement.  
And the Wolf.  
The animal that had been part of him. 

His hand crept to the back of his head and he pulled it back with a hiss as it came back red and sticky. 

Dr. John Hamish Watson tried to push himself up onto his knees, swaying on the floor as his bones ached and muscles burned, confused and in pain, wondering whether anyone would come to talk to him, to explain what was going on. 

And he realized that he would not be allowed to leave.  
Not after what happened.  
Maybe not ever again. 

 

No one came to talk to him.  
It took another week before they allowed a doctor to approach, to look at the back of his head, and John had to kneel, his hands clasped in his neck as two nervous looking soldiers pointed their guns at him, the red laser dots dancing on his chest and back.

Quietly, his gaze down to the floor he asked his questions.  
He was silenced with a nervous command and even more nervous wave with the gun, and grimly he obeyed.  
The questions burned on his tongue, but he decided to keep them with himself for now.  
If there was anything he had learned during his time serving at the military, it was to never discuss anything with a soldier who had an anxious finger on a machine gun.

 

John Watson spent his days pacing the cells, 8 steps along the glass wall, turn, 2 steps along the next wall, stop at the foot of the bed, turn, 2 steps along the bed, turn once more, 6 steps along the bed, turn, 2 steps towards the wall, turn, 2 steps down to the next side.  
Turn.  
8 Steps. Turn.  
8 Steps.  
And start again.

 

His mind was turning, thinking of explanations, fingers stroking his beard that continued to grow long, mumbling to himself.  
He realized soon that he was watched with cameras probably hidden in different corners of his room, but even when he screamed and shouted, there was no reaction. 

 

A medic came on a daily basis, bringing food and taking his blood and temperature, collected his urine and stool, shone into his eyes – but never uttered a word.  
It was normally a young man who stared at him with large, fearful eyes, always surrounded by at least two soldiers.  
John asked for a haircut, for fresh clothes, for a book.  
He never received an answer. 

So he continued to pace, continued to watch BBC one that was playing day in and day out on the side of his screen.

Dr. John Watson wondered.  
He knew that there were sicknesses that were located in Afghanistan, and his mind continued to turn them over in his head.  
Rabies the doctor had said…..

Rabies - _Virus is present in the saliva of the biting rabid mammal._  
Transmission almost always occurs by an animal bite that inoculates virus into wounds.  
Virus inoculated into a wound does not enter the bloodstream but is taken up at a nerve synapse to travel to the brain, where it causes encephalitis. Virus may enter the nervous system fairly rapidly or may remain at the bite site for an extended period before gaining access to the nervous system.  
All mammals are believed to be susceptible to infection, but major reservoirs are carnivores and bats After infection, the incubation period is highly variable, but it lasts approximately 1–3 months. The disease progresses acutely from a nonspecific, prodromal phase with fever and vague symptoms, to a neurologic phase, characterized by anxiety, paresis, paralysis, and other signs of encephalitis; spasms of swallowing muscles can be stimulated by the sight, sound, or perception of water (hydrophobia); and delirium and convulsions can develop, followed rapidly by coma and death.  
Once clinical signs manifest, most patients die in 7–14 days. 

 

Rabies.  
John had seen one case of a human dying of rabies. 

The young Afghan girl had screamed and hallucinated, and died under horrible spasms, raw throat bleeding as she would not drink. 

He was not sure, but unless this was a fully new strain, his symptoms looked very different from what rabies normally progressed as.  
He was fine around water.  
He was fine with light. 

Some of the symptoms fit.  
Most did not. 

 

His head refused to make the connection that kept pushing into his mind, the connection that seemed so obvious and that he had seen in movies and read about in the books of his teenage years. 

_Werewolf_

Ridiculous. 

So Dr. John Watson continued to wander up and down his cell, thinking aloud, kneading his injured shoulder, hoping that someone would come and talk to him.


	4. The woman.

A few days later the woman in the other cell finally woke. 

John recognized her as the medic who had joined him on his last tour, a young soldier fresh from University, who had just signed up with the army.  
It had been her first trip to the field.  
John remembered her name as she had been quite lovely, and he had hoped to ask her for a drink once they had the time. 

Her name was Marianne. 

Marianne.

She had slept in the same hut when they had been attacked. 

John had not been aware that she had survived. 

But now he was glad. 

 

Marianne was just as disoriented as he had been when he woke from his coma, gagging as her dry throat pained her, ripping the needles out of her arm just as he had done.  
John moved forward, watching her closely as she stumbled to her feet, pressing his red emergency button while listening to the howling sound of the medical monitors that had been disconnected.

Two doctors appeared within minutes, fully covered in safety gear, ignoring John and carefully approaching their young patient.  
They entered her cell, taking her pulse, offering her water while three soldiers sporting gas masks stood behind them, weapons raised, eyes never leaving the young woman.  
Just as it had been with John, she received no information and was left slightly disoriented when the doctors withdrew once more.

 

It took Marianne several days to fully come to, and John noticed that if he spoke loudly she could understand him.  
So he would lean close to the wall, his hands on the glass, speaking about trivial things, telling her stories, watching her as she listened. 

Then one day she asked him what had happened, where they were, what was going on.  
That was the day John knew she had finally woken, her mind was her own once more. 

And he had to tell her that he did not know. 

He did not mention the wolf.  
He hoped it would not appear again.  
If it did, she would notice it well enough herself. 

 

Marianne was still dressed in a white hospital pyjama- like outfit, the sleeveless top tied in the back, and John started to wear his bed sheet to cover his own nakedness.  
After his pants had been ripped apart by the wolf they had never been replaced.  
He asked for a fresh pair of trousers but had been ignored. 

It had not been a problem, but now he was starting to feel better and confronted by a beautiful young woman on a daily basis.  
John was embarrassed to admit that she aroused him but knew it was natural and as good a sign of healing as any other. 

So when the lights turned low at night he would lay on his bed and turn away from her, masturbating quietly, angry that there was not enough darkness to hide him, that he did not even have any kind of towels to clean himself, using a corner of his sheet to catch his seed, burning with shame at his natural urges.

Fully aware that there were cameras everywhere and that they would follow his every move. 

 

Prisoners. 

That was what they were. 

His mind settled slowly into this. 

 

 

The doctors whom John had first met never visited again, but instead heavily covered medics in protective gear would bring food and water once a day.  
During this time they also took his pulse, inspected and swabbed his tongue, took urine and stool samples and every second day would take a small tube of blood.  
John was sure that they were having a field day trying to figure out what had happened to him. 

So in the beginning he was calm when they poked him, put out his tongue, rolled his eyes, whatever they wanted. But when he slowly came to the realization that they would not let him go, and that he had evolved from an army doctor to a medical prisoner, he started to bristle. 

He asked them questions.

Once he did not cooperate and was stunned with an electrical prod, bound securely and left there while they roughly drew his blood.

It was the only time someone spoke to him from the medical staff.  
“Dr. Watson, please cooperate or we will have to keep you restrained for the safety of yourself as well as others.”

John had cooperated.  
Not being able to move, one more thing taken from him, would have been….horrifying. 

Still, even though he did what he was supposed to, he continued to ask his questions, not once stopping during their exams. 

What kind of sickness were they dealing with?  
What were the general symptoms?  
Were there others?  
Was there a cure?  
When could they leave…..

There was never an answer.

 

 

Then it happened again. 

 

John could feel the strange agitation overcome him, and the hairs on his neck stood up as he paced the cell, growling under his breath.  
His senses heightened and he could smell his own fear and confusion wavering through the room, mixed with a strong, bloody smell of musk.  
He could smell his own scent and despised the tones of fear within them, pacing up and down the floor, stark naked, his sheet now forgotten in a corner.  
He watched Marianne closely as she sat on her bed, eyes wide in fear of her own body foreign to her, running hot and _powerful…so very very powerful_ and her green eyes tracked John’s circles as his eyes never left her face.  
He knew he had a hard-on and realized that there was spit running from the side of his mouth, but he did not care.  
He had felt less like a human in the last couple of weeks than ever before, and this was the first time in a while that he felt … _good_.

The wolf had started to merge with John, become part of him, barely able to contain his excitement about going free. 

When the change started his mind was prepared but the pain once more pulled him back into his very human body.  
He had forgotten how badly the transformation had hurt. 

He heard Marianne screaming, _shrieking_ on the top of her lungs as John watched her bones breaking under her skin, shifting into new positions, stretching and thickening as her eyes were impossibly wide and horrified.  
Then John’s own transformation began, and his knees hit the floor as his mind only focused on his own agony, the wolf howling in the back of his head, taking over his mind, emerging into the body that it was starting to get more accustomed to.  
The last thing John saw was the broken body of his young cell mate bucking on her floor as he skin ripped to reveal long, white and brown hair.

She flopped like a fish, her screams hoarse in agony until she was fully wolf, howling towards the ceiling.

Then she scrambled to all fours, turned and faced the wolf that was now John.  
The two wolves stared at each other, growling under their breath, hairs in the neck rising, their lips curling over his fangs as drool ran from their snouts, dripping to the floor.

John realized that his wolf did not like the other. 

He stalked in front of the glass, growling louder and louder until he started to attack the barrier that separated him from Marianne. His own mind still shied away from the hunger and pure, raw power that was the wolf, trying to hide from its energy in another corner of his mind, but he knew that the wolf would welcome him to share the mind and body that was his but not at the same time. 

 

The next day he woke again in pain, but this time he had dislocated a shoulder and broken a small finger, probably because his Were continued to catapult himself against the glass wall. John ground his teeth as he pressed himself against the glass and popped the shoulder back in place with a pained groan.  
His sheet and mattress were destroyed, but he could see that Marianne was by now also naked, and he decided that modesty should by now be the least of their worries. . 

They did not speak for two days, both brooding in their cells.  
Then they were once more visited by the medics, but this time they brought gifts.  
A fresh Mattress.  
Bed Linen.  
A towel. 

Then they forced John to kneel once more, a strong hand on the back of his neck pushing him forward as a device was held into his hairline and with a sharp snap they implanted something under his skin.  
His fingers rubbed the small, pea-sized device when he was alone.  
Some sort of tag. Probably measuring device to watch over his heart beat and reading his bodily reactions. 

John knew that he was no more a human being.  
Now he was an experiment.  
Tagged.  
Naked.  
He had lost his rights. 

 

He was monitored more closely over his next two changes.


	5. John and the Alpha

Marianne and John became friends.

No other choice really.  
What else do you do when there is only one person to share your time with?

One person and an integrated TV screen you could not change the channel – which drove John slowly mad.

So they talked. 

About their lives and their needs, their dreams and disappointments.  
John had never known this much about any other person before.

 

Then it happened.

There were 6 soldiers, who marched into the hall, once more in their full protective gear sporting machine guns, and two of them stood attention and aimed at Marianne as they opened the door to her cell.  
She shot looks helpless looks at John who could do nothing but stare, watching as they escorted her out of her room and towards his own. 

When he realized that they were opening the door to his cell, he took a step back, horrified. 

“Please! WAIT! What are you doing?”

He could see the large, green eyes of Marianne swimming with tears as she was held in place, a gun pointing at her back as three soldiers swarmed into his cell, cornering him. 

The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and then he was forced onto the ground, heavy army boots digging into his back.  
He heard Marianne shriek on the top of her lungs, and then the boots disappeared, giving him one more kick into the side of the ribs and then there was the electric buzz of the door closing.  
When he raised his head he saw Marianne kneeling by where the door had closed, imprisoning them together, with no way for either of them to escape. 

About one week to their next transformation.  
John could feel it in his bones. 

He stared at Marianne who had turned to attack the door, screaming on the top of her lungs to let her out.  
John could feel panic wash over his body in hot waves, his vision went black for a short moment and he laid his head on the cold floor once more until the nausea had washed over him. 

Finally Marianne stopped screaming, small sobs giving way to the loud anger and abuse she had hurled at the wall, at their prison.  
She slowly turned, staring at John.

They both knew their reaction to each other as wolves. 

And they both knew that when the transformation would happen, and there was no wall between them, they would attack each other. 

Either they would fight.  
Or they would fuck.  
Either way, one or both of them would probably be seriously injured or even die. 

 

Marianne was shaking all over, and she started to cry in a low sobbing voice. 

And John could just sit and stare, digging his fists into his hair, keeping the distance.  
They had become friends and now he did not know what would happen. 

His voice was low and he hoped soothing:  
“Please. Take the bed. I will sleep on the floor.”

She looked at him with large, wet eyes: “What will happen, John?”

And all he could do was shake his head: “I don’t know Marianne. I just don’t know.”

In the end they both stayed awake, afraid of the next change they knew would come, frightened of what would happen when it did.  
Thinking of the possibilities they had. Knowing that there were none. 

 

The week went by in a heartbeat. 

 

John’s wolf had surfaced more and more the closer the transformation was, and it had growled and bristled at the strange creature in John’s cell.  
_ENEMY_ it whined. _INVADING TERRITORY_

John tried to soothe it, explained about the cell, but the wolf was too agitated to understand. 

 

And then they turned, each in their own corner, screaming, and the sharp scent of fear clinging in the air.

First there was the pain, the changing, the breaking of bones, the stretching of limps.  
Then there were the snarls.  
John had started to merge with his Wolf, BECAME his Wolf, and when he raised his head he saw that there was someone in his territory, INVADING, another ALPHA, he did not wait to think before he attacked. 

Marianne was growling, but still on the floor, not fully transformed yet.  
She was not prepared when he charged at her.  
He bit into her screaming flesh, her blood sweet under his tongue.  
And John turned away in his mind, taking his eyes from the ripping of meat, clasping his mental hands over his ears to shut out the gurgling sounds of screams drowned in blood, hearing wet pieces of Marianne hit the floor.

He cowered in the darkest corner of his mind as his wolf was drunken with power and blood, and when the Wolf howled his triumph into the sky, he was too far gone to hear it. 

 

When John woke up the next morning, curled into a tight ball, he was covered in blood, and when he saw pieces of flesh and a limp or two all over his cell, John vomited noisily all over the floor.  
It looked like a human being that had stepped onto a grenade.  
And he knew what that looked like as he had seen it before.

 

The wolf grumbled happily in the back of his mind, proud of how he ensured that John’s territory was safe again. 

 

That was when John started to scream on the top of his lungs, hoping someone would hear him, someone would save him.  
After a long time the medics appeared once more, pressing a needle into his skin, his body flooding with warmth and peace.  
Valium.  
He allowed the drug to claim his body and take him away, into the sweet bliss it promised. 

When he woke once more, the cell was clean and John was alone.


	6. Sherlock

Several weeks later they brought the man. 

 

John woke up to the rare sound of the doors to the outside opening, which normally just happened once a day when he received his food and had to undergo his medical exams. 

This one was out of schedule.

6 soldiers entered. protective gear with machine guns as usual, walking in a shackled prisoner, naked and tall, in their middle.  
His brown messy hair was falling into his face; his eyes were of a mesmerizing light green-blue colour as he continued to stare at John while they walked to the cell next to him, the one that had been empty ever since John had been brought here. 

John had always tried to ignore the large, reddish brown stain next to the bed in the empty cell, hoping against his own knowledge that it was not what he thought it was.  
He hated that someone would now occupy it, when it was clear that someone had bled and with a high probability already died in that cell.  
His own room sported similar marks, and John could still smell the coppery stink of Marianne’s blood in the air every time he looked at it.  
Therefore John ignored it as best as he could. 

 

The tall, pale man did not struggle as he was pushed into the cell, his shackles removed by a jumpy soldier while the other held him at gunpoint.  
The man continued to stare at John.  
John stared back. 

He was mesmerized by these startling blue eyes and the clean-shaven face with impossible cheekbones, and as he stared his hand flew up to his own chin, realizing that by now he had grown a full beard that reached down to his chest, his hair messy and too long.  
He realized that he looked…uncivilized.  
Naked.  
A shadow of the man he used to be. 

When the soldiers left, the tall man finally turned, eyes wandering over every surface, his long, pale fingers playing over the stainless steel of the table. 

“Comfy.” His voice was dark and smoky, and he turned once more towards John, his eyes flicking up and down his body.

The presence of another human being after being alone for such a long time gave John a stab as he remembered Marianne, and he briefly wondered if he was supposed to try to cover himself, what reaction would be most appropriate.  
Then again, the other one was naked as well, so he stayed where he was. 

Staring. 

“Hmmmm…” the hum from his new cell mate ripped him from his thoughts. 

“Normally I would say homeless or hippie from the lack of grooming of your hair and beard, but you have been clearly washed recently.  
You have been in this cell for a long time, the way you move around, stopping exactly one foot from the glass, not even looking down when walking around the table, having established clear walking patterns you follow unconsciously.  
The way you hold yourself speaks military, but you have given up faith in the establishment which clearly shows the way your shoulders slump once the soldiers left the room. But you have been in the army long enough to stand still and show respect when another soldier enters.  
You keep your….room as clean as possible even though you wonder yourself why you bother anymore.  
Clothes have been taken from you a long time ago.”

His eyes continued to wander up and down John’s body.

“You are worried. You have been alone for quite a while, and even though you hate it you seem to think that it is safer. I can see it from the way you hold yourself facing me. Someone else has been here before me and clearly is gone now. You give yourself the fault for the death. And you might be correct.  
That’s why you stepped back when I faced you once more, looking guilty.”

John blinked slowly as he stared at the man, mesmerized by the sentences that had been spoken as fast as he could listen. 

He shook his head slowly, raising his eyes once more.  
“That was…that is…correct. Amazing.”

The eyebrows of the man peaked slightly.  
He was clearly surprised by John’s answer.

They stared at each for a little while longer before John cleared his throat, still staring at the figure across. “My name is John Watson. Dr. John Watson. I used to be with the army. Now I am….here.”

Light blue eyes flicked once more over his room.  
Then they seemed to burn into John’s soul.  
“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I would say it is a pleasure, but unfortunately the situation does not call for these kind of pleasantries.”  
He took a deep breath, hand combing through his thick, brown hair.  
“This is a research facility. Probably built in the 60’s, out in the country where something like this would not attract too much attention. And from the speed I have been brought here, I would think…Baskerville.”

His eyes once more bored into John’s.  
John stared back. He had been alone so long, that it was hard for him to follow Sherlock’s thought process, though in the back of his mind he knew it would probably be hard for anyone, even if they talk to other humans on a daily basis. 

Therefore all he could say was: “Baskerville?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, giving a sigh.

“Obviously.  
Baskerville Research Facility.  
I was on a case in Dartmoor, a young man who thought that his father was murdered by a great hound, utter rubbish of course, but he paid well and there were some facts in the story that made it…interesting. I went there a couple of days ago, looked at the facility, nothing special really, some chemical and biological warfare, nothing unexpected. But there was something, a hound or wolf-like creature that was in the moor, and we tried to follow it, and I believe it attacked us…I believed it to be a product of our imagination or chemical induced hallucination, not sure how though, but then it scratched me before it was shot…. And now I am here. Within 12 hours soldiers broke down the door to my room, blindfolded me, brought me here. They tried to disorient me of course, but they did not put too much effort into it. Which tells me that they probably don’t expect me to leave.  
So yes.  
Baskerville.  
Probably the basement. God dammit, should have checked the basement.”

Sherlock fisted his hands, obviously upset about something.  
John’s jaw had dropped during the ramble. 

“You…you were bitten?”

Sherlock’s gaze fell on him once more, his eyebrows curling.

“What? By the hound?”  
He let out a snort.  
“No, scratched. Not bitten. Were you also scratched by a hound? In the moor? That would not make for a very good tourist attraction, now would it?”

John ignored his question and the sarcastic undertone in the dark man’s voice. .  
“And… have you turned yet?”

Now the eyebrows rose high enough to almost disappear in the hairline of Sherlock’s brown curls.  
“Turned?” He let out a small snort. “You actually believe…”  
Sherlock stopped, and his eyes widened as he once more took in John and the state he was in.

“Good God, do they believe that you turn into a dog at night? That is ridiculous.” He let out a harsh laugh, but there was no humour in it.

“Not a dog. A wolf.” John’s voice was tired. He allowed his hands to weave through his longish hair, catching tangles, easing them out. 

“A wolf?”

John could hear the condescension in the voice and he could feel anger flood his stomach, hot and sticky.  
“Yes. A wolf. Don’t believe me? Welcome to the club. I did not either until I turned. And believe me, I wish it was not true. Every month, probably at the full moon, but I can’t be sure because I have not left this god-dam place for months and months. So yeah. Welcome to the freak show Sherlock. “

He was surprised by his own outburst, but for some reason he could not stand the small smile in the corner of the tall, groomed man’s mouth and how he looked down on him, as if he knew better.  
John Watson turned and laid down on his mattress.  
He was done talking 

For now. 

He could hear the padding of the naked feet on the floor as Sherlock went and investigated his cell.  
And John continued to stare at the ceiling.  
For some reason he could not hold back the tears that flooded his eyes, slowly snaking down his face along the side of his cheeks.


	7. Transformation

Of course John was not angry for long.  
It was too much of a novelty to have someone to talk to.

Sherlock asked for John’s story, and John told him everything.   
He more or less started when he first went to boarding school, to university, army, everything he could think of. 

He felt like he talked for days, and when he described his wolf and the turning, Sherlock leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing, asking pointed questions. He did not mention to John that he did not believe him again, but John could see it in those ridiculously light blue eyes.   
He did not care.   
It was just good to tell who John Watson was. For he was beginning to forget himself.

By the third or so day that Sherlock was in the cell, the scratch on his back started to redden and infect, and within another day he developed a fever.

John watched helplessly as the medics took Sherlock’s pulse, were drawing blood and checked his temperature, but did not much else.   
Sherlock had turned into another one of their experiments.   
They were monitoring the infection on a light case. 

John was furious.   
He screamed at the men, but when he noted how much it upset Sherlock in his sleep, groaning and tossing, he stopped.  
Yelling had not helped in the past.   
It would not now. 

The doctor in him wished he could sit at the side of the bed, and cool the fever with a cold cloth, hold Sherlock’s hand, allow the fevered man some kind of comfort.  
But there was none of that. 

Sherlock was very sick for about 5 days, then his fever broke and he slowly recovered.   
He was weak, but John sat at the glass wall that separated them, staring at his new cell mate and continued telling him stories, just as he had done with Marianne.   
It was a painful thought and John banished it in the back of his mind.

 

When Sherlock was back up, walking around, he was much quieter than the couple of days before his sickness, and when he turned to John and asked a question, his eyes looked haunted.  
“How did you know you were…infected, John?”

Those were the first words he had spoken for days, and his voice was hoarse.   
The sickness had made him gaunt, and his eyes still gleamed feverish as he stared at the man across of the glass. 

“I… I can feel him. I can feel the wolf. In the back of my mind. He is there now. It is time soon.”  
John’s throat was dry. 

Sherlock stared at him for some while longer, then he nodded and laid back on his bed, turning his back to John. 

The slighter man wondered if the infection had taken hold and the pale man could feel his wolf already.  
He hoped not, for the sake of Sherlock Holmes.  
God, he hoped not. 

 

4 days later the time had come once more. 

John now knew his wolf well enough to be able to hold him back slightly, while it whined in the background. It had been close to the surface for days now, and the doctor was surprised by how much the wolf was like himself.   
Animal but still John.

He had wanted to wait to see if Sherlock turned, and if he did, talk him through it. 

The tall, pale man paced his room, had for the last hours, eyes unnaturally wide and his cheeks flushed as if his fever had returned, his fingers continuously scratching the pits of his arms.   
He mumbled to himself, and if John did not know better, he would have thought to have an addict on withdrawal next to him. 

He was pretty sure that Sherlock was infected.

Then it happened.  
Sherlock sunk to his knees, breathing fast, his wide eyes fasting on John who stood at the glass that separated them.  
“It’s ok Sherlock, I am here.” John’s voice was smooth, and he did not break eye contact.  
“Just let it happen, it will be ok. Just relax.”

He could now hardly hold back his own wolf, and when Sherlock started to scream as his first bones broke with a loud crack, John had to give in. He went to his knees, hands still on the glass as the first pains shot through his body, lowered in their intensity by the adrenalin his body shot into him now to prepare him for the pain of transformation.

And transform they did. 

 

When John raised himself from the floor, flooded with _POWER_ and _STRENGTH_ and _GOD, HE LOVED IT SO MUCH_ , his eyes immediately fell on the shadow in the next room. The hair on his neck stood slowly, and he let out a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat as he approached the glass with stiff legs. 

_INTRUDER._

John tried to soothe his wolf, but to no avail. 

The growl was now loud enough for the other to hear. 

Sherlock was a black wolf with light streaks of white, his eyes almost translucent in his face.  
He turned when he heard the growl, unstable on his feet as his mind tried to cope with the use of four legs instead of two. When he saw John, the blonde wolf, fur standing, showing his sides to make him appear larger, he backed of slowly.   
And then, after a short stumble, he lowered himself and showed his belly and neck, whining low in his throat. 

_OMEGA_ John’s wolf almost purred, and he raised his ears as he now paced along the glass, watching the dark wolf on the other side.  
He could not smell him, but the action had been a strong indicator, and John’s wolf HATED to be separated from what he believed to be his price. 

And there was _LUST_ flooding their mind now, and John wished he could smell Sherlock, let his nose glide along that pale skin that had now turned into black fur, dig his hands into those unruly curls and pull that head back as he mounted what was his….

Sherlock left his submissive pose after a while, eyes on John, then exploring his cell, clearly getting to know his new body.  
And John wished he could claim what he knew should be his.   
Instead his wolf and he had to pace along the glass barrier, look for a way through they knew was not there. 

 

The next morning John woke feeling rather good, stretching lazily.   
The first thing he always did after a transformation was to check his body for any kind of injuries, and he was happy to note that this time his wolf had not tried to break through the glass and therefore he did not sport any broken or strained bones or dislocated shoulders.   
He had tried to get past the glass once more, he remembered dimly, to…to…

John’s head snapped up, as the previous night flashed through his head.  
The longer he was part of his wolf, the more did he remember what occurred after his transformation, and even though he hardly had any say in what happened, he remembered.

Remembered his wolves’ reaction to Sherlock. 

John blushed. 

For some reason he did not understand his wolf had not seen the other as an enemy, but as an…as an…submissive?  
The word _OMEGA_ flashed through his mind and he could hear his wolf grumble happily in the back of his consciousness. It came with a wave of hot lust and need, flooding straight into his groin, and the blush now spread to his chest deepened into a dark red. 

John was painfully aware of his erection, and he shuffled awkwardly to his bed, his eye always on Sherlock who was still curled up under the table, breathing evenly.   
Still asleep.  
Good.   
John slowly lowered his hand to touch his straining cock, and with a couple of quick strokes he took care of the problem, moaning softly as he came into the corner of his bedsheets, shuddering at the intensity of the orgasm that swept him away.   
When he was done he laid back, hand on his head, worried about the bodily reaction this transformation had brought along with it.  
His wolf liked Sherlock’s wolf.   
For some reason that knowledge stirred in his loins and John groaned. 

 

He was straight. Straight as an arrow.   
But apparently his wolf was not.  
God damn, why did he have to live with a gay wolf?  
This would make for awkward conversation in the future…

 

A low groan straightened him, and he sat up, making his way to the wall.  
He could see Sherlock lying in a heap under his table, now moving slowly, painfully. 

John remembered his own first transformation and the pain that had resulted from him fighting the wolf and the change every step of the way. 

It hurt more if one resisted.

He kneeled at the glass, his eyes on the back of Sherlock. The pale, lanky man was drenched in sweat, his dark curls clinging damp to the back of his long neck.   
Another jolt of lust went through John.   
_God damn it wolf, I am not interested in men, go AWAY!_  
He could hear the animal whine in the back of his mind, and he turned back to observing the other man waking.

There was another groan, and John sat down glass and waited for Sherlock to come to.  
It took a long time.


	8. John/Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, we have come to the part for big-time warnings.  
> This scene will contain rape. Yes, between wolves, but it will be explicit and dark and there will be quite a bit of hurt before there is comfort in later chapters.  
> It will get better, I promise.  
> IF you are triggered easy, please do not continue or simply skip this chapter. . 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> x

This time they allowed them only one more transformation before it happened again. 

 

John paced the floor, growling angrily when the soldiers walked in, knowing what they came to do, as they screamed and waved their guns and Sherlock was forced to his knees, forcefully turned towards the wall.

“Dr. Watson. Back off to the end of the room, kneel and place your hands on your head.”

John growled, bearing teeth, adrenalin rushing through his veins as he continued to stand, defying, angry. 

“Or what? Are you going to SHOOT me? Kill me?  
If you remember the last time you guys did this, I am sure you realize that it won’t make a difference!”

John screamed at the top of his lungs, not caring about the spittle that flew from his mouth, eyes wild as he watched Sherlock who was calmly kneeling in the cell next to him.  
“John….” His voice was calm, soothing in his deepness.

“FUCK YOU!”

John continued to ignore the tense voices of the soldiers, agitated now, as he stood right at the glass glowering at the men holding their machine guns, throwing glances at each other.  
They realized he would pounce if they opened the door to his cell. 

He had decided to bite whomever came close to him. 

Sherlock was now shackled and was forced to lie on the floor, stomach down.  
A heavy boot on the back of his neck kept him in place.  
His eyes never left John, but he stopped speaking.  
He just watched.

Finally the door opened once more and a doctor appeared, an older man with the steely resolute of a soldier, his blue eyes cold and grey. “Dr. Watson, please do not make it any more difficult for us than this has to be.”

John did not even bother to answer, snarling at the glass.  
He felt the wolf move in the back of his mind, and it felt _good_.  
Strong.

They had taken his humanity from him, and he would not allow them to force Sherlock to join him.  
Sherlock was still so … pure.  
He did not want to take that from him.

But he would if they put them together.  
In the back of his mind he knew he would. 

 

In the end they shot a tranquilizer dart into John’s arm, which he ripped off as soon as he could, just to get another one into his thigh. He felt himself fall and was roughly turned onto his stomach and shackled before his eyes swooned and he lost himself. 

 

Once he woke his mouth felt like it was filled with cotton, and he groaned under his breath. 

There was a soft hand on the back of his head as he was carefully turned, and then he was lifted slightly, he felt the border of a cup at his mouth.  
He drank the cold water, thankful.  
Then his head sank back. 

When he opened his eyes he looked straight into the clear sky-colour eyes of Sherlock, and he gave a soft sob. 

Sherlock let his hand wander over John’s hair, his gaze intent on John’s features.

“This has happened before.”

John could not speak. He nodded. 

“The other wolf did not survive.”

All he could do was shake his head. A small tear ran from his eye as he continued to stare without blinking at the tall, brown-haired man.

“You are worried about what will happen during the next change.”

John pushed himself up, nausea swamping over his body, and he had to hold his head between his knees for a while, his beard scratching his thighs as he breathed slowly into his stomach. 

 

They had 3 days.  
Sherlock got more and more agitated, pacing the wall to his old cell, eyes flicking at John who sat on his bed, brooding. When he raised his eyes to return the gaze, Sherlock would lower his eyes and walk a little faster.

 

3 days.

 

Bones breaking.  
Howling.  
Accepting.  
Transforming. 

 

John could feel his Wolf growl, felt himself merge with the animal, with the spirit. 

 

There was someone in his territory, but this time, it was…not an invader…

 _MATE_ …his wolf growled, the hairs on his neck bristling, his sheathed cock swelling, filling with blood as his head filled with carnal lust.  
The sound he made came from the bottom of his throat, low and rumbling, as he stalked towards the black wolf who continued to watch him, standing his ground, the glass wall at his back.  
Tail between legs.

_OMEGA. MINE. MINE. MINE._

John jumped towards Sherlock, cornering him, taking his escape route, biting the other wolf into the flanks, forcing the submissive one to show his throat and belly, whining in a low voice.  
And John felt triumphant as he started to sniff the dark one beneath him, drank in his heady, raw scent of _LUST_ and _WANT_ and _NEED_ , starting from the back of his neck where he gave a short, claiming nip along Sherlock’s side, nuzzling at his still sheathed cock back to his arse. He pushed his muzzle into the hole, growling under his breath.  
 _UNCLAIMED_.  
His wolf yipped happily when he realized that this potential mate had not been taken before, and he ignored the yelp of Sherlock as he pushed him further into the corner, snarling when the darker wolf tried to push himself up, to press past him to leave.

No.  
Sherlock was his.  
He would not get away.

With another whine John started to lick the hole of the black wolf, who tried to cower away from the tongue of the alpha male, but John just pressed him further into the glass and continued to nuzzle and lick at the heady scent of the anal glands of the omega. 

_MINE._

Finally he could not hold himself longer, his cock erect and his knot swelling, and he bit Sherlock’s tail to move it to the side as he pushed himself upward, crowding the darker wolf deep into the corner. His front legs were now clasped around Sherlock’s body, and he could feel his cock aligning to the omega’s hole, and with a sharp thrust he penetrated the tight sphincter in one go.  
Sherlock tensed and howled in pain, trying to squirm away under John, but the blonde alpha dug his teeth into the omega’s neck, paralyzing him, and steadied himself on his hind legs before he thrust into the tight heat beneath him in earnest.  
John did not listen to the pained whining, as his wolf was yipping triumphantly, and he was high with the heady scent of sex as he pumped in a harsh rhythm, his cock sliding all the way into the slightly dry arse of the black wolf beneath him. 

Sherlock must have finally got a hold on himself as he turned his head and snarled at the blonde wolf, ears laid back, stilling John, his cock deeply seated within his bitch.  
He bit hard and deep into Sherlock’s neck. 

Both could feel the skin break as John’s teeth dug deep into the skin of the omega, and Sherlock bucked, trying to throw the alpha off, to no avail.  
John just bit harder, claiming, suckling the salty sweetness that was Sherlock, giving two or three savage thrust, drawing whines beneath him.  
The Blonde did not let go, now triumphant as he claimed his prize with long, deep pushes strokes, seating himself deeply into the bitch beneath him, who squirmed and yelped as if he did not understand that this was what he was born to do. 

Be bred like the bitch that he was. 

John could feel his knot swell, and he forced himself deep into Sherlock who now had started to howl as John forced the large knot past his tight sphincter, splitting skin and lodging the alpha deep  
within the omega, where he came in hot, hard spurts, ass still pumping as Sherlock took his knot, took his alpha while whining, head hanging low as he was bred. 

John’s seed continued to spurt hot into the warm cavity; he had never realized what awesome FUCK a wolf could have. He nuzzled and licked at the large bite wound on Sherlock’s neck as his orgasm subsided, and then he let his whole weight down, waiting for his knot to deflate.

He ignored Sherlock’s soft whines and shivering and cherished his triumph.

 

The next morning was ….. Awkward, to say the least.


	9. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst. And then Angst....
> 
> And did I mention Angst?
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> x

John woke, feeling rested, and, well….satisfied.  
He yawned deeply, carefully stretching his limbs, cataloguing any injuries he might have sustained during his last transformation.  
It was almost routine now to do this when he first woke, after his night as a wolf.  
His hands sneaked along his body, to the main parts he knew were most vulnerable - hands, fingers, his nose and lips, past his rips to his knees and finally his feet.

There were the normal hurts that the transformation brought along, much less painful than it used to be, but he found no major breaks in the skin he had to worry about.  
Some minor scratches and chafing of his knees, but nothing serious.

John let out a satisfied huff and leaned back once more. 

Adrenalin was still rushing through his body, giving him a very agreeable high, and he allowed it to sweep him away, just for a moment, eyes closed.

There was something in the back of his mind…something…someone…. 

_Sherlock_

John stilled, memories flooding his mind, bubbling up, forcing him of the bed, his eyes scanning the room, finding his cell mate in a far away corner.  
Sherlock was curled in a tight ball, shivering slightly. 

“Good God, Sherlock….”

Nausea washed over John as he scrambled to his feet, making his way to the tall, pale man as images flooded his memories, bringing along a wave of lust and a satisfied growl from the wolf still hovering at the edge of his mind.  
His cock twitched but he huffed angrily and his Were drew back, slightly hurt in its animal feelings.  
John could not care less at the moment.  
Sherlock had been injured. 

Now once more a doctor, John lowered himself down to his knees, his hands hovering over the pale body beneath him.  
His eyes wandered, taking in all the small and large lacerations that were usual after a transformation, but wincing when he noted the large bite wound on the Sherlock’s neck and the obvious trail of blood from his ass.  
John took a moment to think before he pushed himself up once more, making his way to the small bed-side table to fetch the plastic bottle of water that was always stowed there, safe from the destructive power of the Were’s but easy to reach when one had thumbs and a brain to open the sliding door. 

He retrieved the water and hurried back, once more kneeling at the side of the tall, pale man who radiated heat like fever.  
Another thing John had learned to be a normal side-effect of the transformation.  
It did not worry him.  
The large bite wound on the left side of Sherlock’s neck, however, did. 

He leaned closer, whispering words of comfort as he pushed the sweaty curls to the side, carefully removing them from the open wound that was still trickling a thin bead of red to the floor.  
The bite was an angry red, warmer than the surrounding skin, and, in a perfect world, would require stitches immediately.  
Sherlock groaned softly, his brow sweaty as he shivered, his hands clenching and unclenching in an unconscious rhythm.  
John continued to murmur soothing nothings, pushing the feeling of shame further into the back of his mind _It was ME, I did this to him…_ and slowly turned Sherlock so that he rested comfortably on the side.

With no first aid accessible for him he took the water bottle and opened it. 

John normally did not approve of washing wounds with water, rinsing away the natural defenses of the body within the clotted blood, but he also knew that the mouth of a human and a dog teemed with bacteria, and he did not want the bite to infect, especially as he did not know when the medics would arrive. 

He made sure to keep his hands away from the open flesh, aware that he himself would introduce more bacteria if he touched it and slowly tilted the bottle, allowing the water to wash over Sherlock’s neck in a small stream.  
The water running down the body was dark, coppery red, John hissing at the wound that opened up beneath him. Carefully he removed the thick crust, embedded with pieces of fur and long, curly hair.

Stitches.  
Definitely needed stitches.

Another pang of seething guilt washed over John as the memories of him biting deep into Sherlock’s neck _NO, not ME, the WOLF it was HIM, not me, never me, no, no…._ holding the omega in place while he mounted, claimed, tasted…  
Heat washed over him as his cock twitched once more, and he had to forcefully beat back the images. 

He continued to watch as the water cleaned the wound more and more, and Sherlock started to groan, twisting, eyes fluttering as the cold sensation of the water slowly woke him.  
Then all of the sudden his startling blue eyes flew open.

Sherlock was tense, eyes full of panic when they stared at John, before he took a deep shuttering breath and relaxed slightly.  
“John…” his voice was hoarse and pained, his eyes glued to the bottle in the kneeling man’s hands. “Water, please….”

The doctor leaned forward, lifting Sherlock carefully by pushing his hands into the dark curls, helping him to raise his head enough to let the cold wet run into the tall man’s throat.  
Sherlock closed his eyes as he swallowed, making small pained sounds, then his hand flew up to the bite wound on his neck.  
John caught it.  
Held it.  
“Don’t touch it Sherlock. It needs to be disinfected.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened once more and fastened on John, studying him.  
Something lit up behind those light eyes, and for a moment they widened in shock, wincing at the pain that shot through his body when he moved abruptly, stiffening and then throwing himself backwards.  
Away from John and the hurt he associated with him at this moment.

He remembered.  
His wolf remembered. 

John turned his palms up, crouching down.  
“Sherlock…” his voice was low, a whisper, but he could hear how broken his voice sounded, even to him.

“You….you….did this…” The voice of the man was almost childlike as he pressed himself once more into the corner – John’s wolf was growling happily _take him, he is ours, MATE, take him now, he needs to learn….MATE HIM! TEACH HIM!_ and John closed his eyes to will the wolf back, get his thoughts back to himself. 

_you are not bloody….HELPING…._

John took a deep breath. 

“I am so very sorry Sherlock, I did not mean to…I could not… ( _did not WANT to…._ his wolf whispered)…COULD NOT stop it. I am so sorry.”  
He watched the tall man, shivering, eyes ripped open.

Carefully John backed up, not making any sudden movement as not to spook Holmes more than he already was.  
“I am going to call for help, your wounds need to be taken care of.”

When he was several meters away, he slowly rose to his feet and turned, steadily walking to the intercom with the red emergency button at the door that only opened from the outside.

He took a deep breath and willed his voice to calm, swallowing the bitterness that had invaded his throat.  
Then he pushed the red button.  
He could hear the crackle of the channel opening.  
There was nothing. So he spoke. 

“Please… we need the medics here. Sherlock is injured; he has a large bite wound on his neck that urgently needs stitches. He is still bleeding.” John swallowed and took another deep breath. Forced himself not to look at Sherlock. “I also expect there to be some kind of rectal injuries that need to be examined. Please send someone.”

His hand dropped from the intercom button.  
He slowly turned his eyes back on his cell mate.  
Sherlock was still sitting in the corner, still shivering, eyes wide and staring. 

Shock. 

Not good. 

The doctor, careful not to make any sudden movements, walked over to his bed, taking the blanket from it. Then he turned to the tall man once more, speaking loud and clear:

“Sherlock. You are in shock. You are cold. I am going to bring you this blanket to get warm.”  
The tall man’s eyes fastened on him, panic glittering in his eyes.

“I am not going to hurt you. But you need to stay warm.”

Sherlock was shacking visibly.

Very slowly John walked towards him, ignoring how Sherlock pressed himself deeper into the corner, finally turning his head away from John, making low, keening sounds.  
They drove to the bottom of John’s heart and cut it into tiny little pieces. 

“Shush, Sherlock, it’s ok, I am not going to hurt you.”  
Once more down on his knees he spread out the blanket, covering the man from the front.

Sherlock had squeezed his eyes together.  
“But you did, John, you did hurt me. You bit me….you…you….”  
And then there was just a sob that ended in a wail, and it sent tears to John’s eyes. 

He forced himself to stay, making comforting sounds. 

“Sherlock, listen to me. It was not me. It was the wolf. You know how you cannot control what your wolf does? Neither can I. I am so sorry, I wish I could have made him stop, but…. But….”  
And with this the while guilt washed over John, flooding through him, the whole impact of what he and his wolf had done becoming clear. 

And John broke. 

The tears slipped from his eyes unwanted, silently first, then he lowered his head, and finally, Dr. John Watson, ex-military and now prisoner of a medical institution sobbed quietly, letting out all the grief and hurt he had not shown in months, allowing his hurt and anger and unhappiness to take over and wash out of him.  
John Watson cried.  
He had never cried like this, not when his father died, not when he had lost Marianne. 

He just sat, head sunken to his chest, hands digging into his face as he gasped for breath, shaking silently as all the pictures of devastation and hurt washed over him, claimed him, reminded him how wrong his life was. 

He could not move.  
Could not force himself to get up, just kneeled in front of the man he had….RAPED…he had raped him for god’s sake, silently trying to beg for forgiveness and not knowing how to.  
Wishing his tears could wash away his guilt.

And then there was a soft hand on his shoulder, pulling him in, wrapping him in the blanket and cradling him like a child, holding him, forgiving him.  
John curled, sobs racking his body, the pain clawing at his stomach as if his Were was trying to escape and he whimpered, the sounds coming from his throat not his voice, someone else’s: “I am so…very…..SORRY…..oh god, what have I done…..”  
There was no reply but John felt Sherlock relax around him while he held him, swaying slightly, holding on to him, not letting the doctor go.

Anchoring him to the world. 

The two men sat, sharing their pain, bundled in a blanket that held the panic out and their safety in.


	10. The medic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow updates, I am currently moving house and will need my mind and body for that task. 
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely comments, please stick with me, I hope to update again in 2 weeks or so. 
> 
>  
> 
> x

They had no sense of time, but when the medics arrived John felt empty, eyes wide and staring, Sherlock slumped over him, exhaustion and pain had lulled him into sleep, breathing evenly. 

John ignored the soldiers as long as he could, but when the door opened and the red lights of the guns were dancing over his chest and forehead, he stood slowly, giving Sherlock a soft shake to wake him.  
Sherlock groaned, his skin slightly feverish, reacting to the injuries. 

“Dr. Watson, we are here to examine Mr. Holmes. Please move into the corner to your right and sit on your knees with your hands clasped behind your head.”

John was too exhausted to argue and did as he was told, aware not to make any sudden movements, kneeling on the cold floor while facing Sherlock. 

There were 6 guards and 2 medics in full safety gear, heavier protection than usual - probably because the transformation had only taken place last night and they still did not want to take any chances. Who knew, maybe there was still a higher risk of contamination than usual. 

The two medics kneeled next to Sherlock who had not moved, first taking swap samples of the bite wound and a syringe of blood before they continued with the examination.  
The double-gloved fingers first trailed over most of Sherlock’s body, checking for other injuries or broken bones before returning to the very obvious bite on his shoulder. 

They gave Sherlock 17 stitches across his neck and pressed gauze to the wound to still the bleeding. 

“Mr. Holmes, we will not be giving you any pain medication as we do not know how you would react to it in your…state.”  
Sherlock gave a soft groan, his eyes gleaming feverish.

John tensed. 

It was ridiculous, they probably just wanted to keep his blood pure and therefore their studies untainted. There was no reason to presume that the meds would react to his blood otherwise.  
It angered John.  
He growled under his breath, but stilled immediately when he heard the sharp breath of fear next to him, and the tip of a gun pressed at his temple. 

The medics had frozen as well, but when John did not move and the soldiers gave them an affirmative nod, they turned to Sherlock once more.  
“Mr. Holmes, we understand that there may have been some internal damage, please lay back so we can examine you.” The voice of the medic sounded surprisingly young, but there was no hint of emotions in it.  
Sherlock swallowed, his eyes wandering over to John, catching his gaze.  
Pleading.  
And John understood and lowered his eyes.  
In a world of no privacy, this was all he had to offer.

He tried to shut out the sounds but could not, the slick sound of a finger breaching, the hiss from Sherlock’s clenched lips.  
Then nothing. 

“Ok, that’s it, thank you.”  
There was the snap of gloves removed and John looked up once more, to see what was going on.  
Sherlock had sat once more, pale and strangely fragile between the medics in several layers of protective gear.  
“There is some obvious external tearing that we will need to keep an eye on, but no internal damages that we can find at the moment. We will leave you some cream to apply to your injuries three times daily. If there is any further discomfort, please let us know.”

With that they passed a small white tube to Sherlock and stood, their little silver case closed once more. 

“He needs pain medication. He was severely injured.” John’s voice was loud and clear. 

The medics walked over to John, ignoring his outburst and preceded their daily exam on him.  
He was fully aware of the tense soldiers around him, but stated the obvious once more when he did not receive an answer.  
The needle that took the blood was plunged maybe a little harsher than necessary, but John did not wince, his eyes fixed on the medic, his voice low, but he tried to keep it friendly:  
“Please. Just give him some Valium or Diazepam or something, so he can sleep of the shock and heal better. His mind has been attacked as well as his body, and it would not be beneficial for him to develop another fever and loose his strength after his last sickness.”  
The medic tried to ignore him, but his light brown eyes flicked over the doctor’s face once more, measuring him.  
When he finished with his exam he leaned over, whispered to John in a low voice.  
“I am sorry. Orders from the top. I can’t do anything about it. I am so very sorry.”  
And John believed him.

The young medic with the hazel eyes never came back after that.


	11. The Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter:  
> There is some self-hurt and Angst. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> x

About a week later Sherlock and John were living side by side, but mostly ignored each other.  
Sherlock, once he got over his shock, stopped showing panic in his eyes when he looked at John, but he kept his distance anyway. The moment of fleeting warmth they had shared was forgotten or ignored, an almost embarrassing memory that neither of them dared to discuss. 

John continued to sit and lay in his bunk, eyes empty as he focused on the screen on the wall, but not taking in any of the information that was provided. 

It played the TV 24-7 and he muted it if he needed to. 

He hated watching the news.  
Images of war.  
People had died.  
Another school massacre, this time in France.  
Hottest summer ever in Australia.  
Forest fires.  
There was terror and death everywhere. 

So he started to flick through channels, mindlessly.  
Stared at the ceiling.  
Fought the depression that was starting to overwhelm him. 

He asked for a pen and paper to write, the way he used to when he was younger.  
Instead he was told that he could use the touchscreen that was also his telly to type, almost like a computer but without the freedom of the internet. 

They also uploaded books for him. 

He stared at the screen, realizing how awkward it would be to stand to type using the wall, but then he also thought of something else. They would read and analyse and then over-analyze every single thing he would put down.  
First the devious thought of writing some really nasty hardcore porn crossed his mind, but heat pooled in his groin just thinking about it and he knew he would turn himself on doing just that. 

And Sherlock was pacing the floor just a couple of meters behind him.  
No, that would not do.

So John typed out all the food he could remember eating and wish he could eat again.  
Maybe they would get the hint. 

 

Sherlock continued to pace. 

Like a sleek cat in a cage, up and down along his side of the wall where they had brought in a separate bed for him, up and down, over and over again.  
His hands were sometimes clasped behind his back, then again fidgeting at his sides, then clenched under his chin.  
When they were offered books on the computer he stopped walking for a while, sitting down to read some case files, but soon John could hear him huff in frustration and walk again.  
He turned more and more agitated as the days went by.  
Glancing at John, but avoiding his gaze when he looked back at him. 

John was too aware of what he had done to try to start a conversation. 

 

Then, out of nowhere, Sherlock Holmes exploded.

“WHERE THE HELL IS HE?” His voice, as deep and dark as it was, boomed through the room, and John gave an involuntary little jump, his hand flying in reflex up to his side where his gun used to sit.  
He realized he had crouched down on his bed where he had been laying, reading a book on his side that was projected on his wall, cowering.  
“What the fuck?” He burst out when he had finished scanning the room and noted that there was no one and nothing that would have provoked Sherlock to say what he had.

“MYCROFT! Where the hell is Mycroft? He was supposed to get me out of here WEEKS AGO!”

Ah.  
Cage terror then.  
Like an animal in a zoo. 

The continuous pacing should have been an indication, but as John studied Sherlock closely now he saw the wide pupils, his hands fisted at his sides, the sheen of sweat on his forehead.  
And John realized that they had talked a lot of about HIS own past, but he knew almost nothing about Sherlock.  
He had listened.  
And shared very little. 

“Mycroft. That is your brother if I remember correctly?” John relaxed his body and scratched his head.  
“Sherlock, I am sorry to tell you this but even if he knew where you are, he would not be able to get in. Getting you OUT is a whole other story…..”

Sherlock turned and stared at him, as if he had forgotten that John was there.  
“Mycroft can get in ANYWHERE! He is in the _Government_.  
Hell, no, he IS the Government. It would cost him no more than the wave of a hand to get me out of here. WHY IS HE NOT HERE?”

John shifted, leaning back. 

“Calm down, Sherlock. Maybe he will still come. For now, how about you watch some telly or tell me something about Mycroft or something.”

The tall pale man stared at John for another couple of seconds, then he turned towards the wall and drove his fist into it. 

With all his might. 

There was a sharp hiss from Sherlock’s lips, and for a moment he leaned forward to rest his head against the wall, then he straightened himself once more and slammed his fist into the same spot again. 

With the first crash John had been simply surprised, but when the second blow hit the glass with the same strength, the doctor shot up. “STOP! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”  
Sherlock turned for a fraction of a second before he hit the wall again for a third time. A suppressed moan spilled from his lips.  
When he dropped his hand there was a faint smear of blood on the glass. 

John was on his feet and next Sherlock within seconds, wrestling him backwards, away from the wall. John turned Holmes and without any hesitation slapped him hard across the cheek.  
Sherlock eyes went wide, then he snarled and ran towards the wall again, resulting in a hard shove to his back, sending him stumbling to the floor. 

“I SAID STOP, DAMN YOU!” John was above Sherlock in an instance, lowering himself onto Sherlock’s back with a knee between his shoulder blades, turning his unharmed arm behind his back.  
He tried to keep his weight of the injured shoulder, but when Sherlock continued to struggle, snarling like an animal in a cage he pushed down harder.  
“Calm down Sherlock. It is going to be all right. Just calm down.”  
John lowered his voice, giving it a soothing tone, but he noted a slight shake in it.

Finally the younger detective calmed down, a sheer film of sweat covering his body, breathing fast from the fight and pain.  
John swallowed but continued to hold on.  
Tried to ignore that Sherlock was pinned under him, slick and beautiful, unruly curls spilling to the side. His darker skin against the pale whiteness.  
The softness of said skin.  
 _Jesus._  
John closed his eyes, reminded himself that he was a doctor, and he had to treat a patient (yes, a naked, stunningly good-looking patient…) who was having a clear panic attack and had shown tendencies to hurt himself. He took two deep breaths and looked again.  
The bite wound he could see had held its stitches; there was only a little blood on that side, good. 

“Sherlock, I am going to let you go now. Please behave or I will have to hold you down again.”

There was a huff, and then the dark voice grumbled in it’s soft baritone: “Sure John, whatever you wish. 

The doctor hesitated for a moment, then slowly released the arm he had twisted, taking the weight of his knee, crouching down next to the younger man.  
Watching closely, ready to pounce once more if Holmes showed any indication of moving. 

Nothing.  
Sherlock stayed still, breath calmer now.  
John sat back, watching. 

“Sherlock…..Why?’  
There was really nothing else to ask.  
The pale man did not move, his head turned away from John, his breath now even. Curls sticking in a moist tumble to the back of his head. 

“Bored. I am so bored. Pain distracts me.”

John stared down at the man beneath him. “Jesus…Sherlock. Why did you not just say something? We could have had a chat or something!” He leaned back; let his hand massage his temples where a slight headache was forming 

Sherlock turned his head, staring up at John.  
“A chat? Really John?” His mouth was curled at the side into a sarcastic grin  
“Nah, I don’t even do psychiatrists, I am not going to start now.”

The doctor huffed something that may have been a laugh, then lowered himself onto his back, stretching himself next to Sherlock’s lean frame.  
The floor was cold.  
Good.  
It kept his mind of…things. 

“Fuck, Sherlock. Really. Now I don’t _just_ have to worry about ourselves being locked up and turning into fucking wolves once a month, but also that my roommate is bored and therefore chooses to inflict pain onto himself. It’s not like I needed something else to worry about. Fuck.”

Sherlock turned his head to look at the man sprawled next to him.  
He scanned the shorter frame, then grimaced. “John, I am ALWAYS bored. And you seemed…uncomfortable talking to me. This solution seemed a good compromise.”

John let out a snort. “Yeah, great compromise. Very smart. I mean, Sherlock, I am also suffering here, and I have been here longer, and I mean MUCH longer.” When Sherlock did not answer, the doctor waited for a moment before sighing.  
“Look, I am sorry, ok? I know everyone handles stress differently. And I am sorry I snapped at you. Just, next time, come and talk to me instead of trying to break through the glass with your fist.  
I doesn’t work.” He paused for a second. “I know. I have tried.”  
John grinned.  
He had actually punches the wall as well.  
Not unlike Sherlock actually.  
He had been angry though.  
A soft chuckle escaped his lips.

The image of a naked Sherlock in a glass cage with nothing to do and getting bored, sulking like a child and therefore deciding with his brilliant mind that punching a hole into the wall to escape was kind of ridiculous.  
“Bored…Oh my god, Sherlock.” 

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was low and smooth, if slightly hesitant. “I have been thinking. About what happened….” Even without further explanation John knew exactly what Sherlock was talking about.  
Well.  
That certainly changed the mood.  
A knot formed in the pit of his stomach.  
There was a pause in which both men just stared at the ceiling, both hesitant to continue. 

Then Sherlock took a deep breath.  
“I think….it will happen again, wont it? Next time?” It was not a question really; more of a statement, but the elder could not keep himself from shivering.  
He shifted uncomfortably, his gut a pool of ice.  
Well.  
He should have known that this talk would be coming.  
Actually, he was ashamed that he did not initiate it.  
After all, he had been the attacker. 

He shifted, realizing that he had waited for a while to answer.  
“I am not 100% sure but …… yeah. Judging by what I know about my wolf…Yeah, it probably will.”  
Sherlock made a low, humming sound under his breath. It seemed strangely out of place, did not fit to the topic of rape.  
John shifted uncomfortably, not able to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “Listen, Sherlock, I am really sorry and….” John started, but Sherlock disrupted him.  
“Don’t get me wrong John, I did not want to make you feel guilty, but I think we might want to try to prepare for next time. I mean, at least I need to. For my own sake.“

Now finally the doctor turned his head and started at the man beside him.  
Prepare? How the hell should they prepare?  
Talk it out?  
Again, something he should have thought of.  
He was a doctor after all. 

God damn it. 

“Sure, Sherlock, whatever you need. It’s just…I am not sure what I can do. Like I said, I have very little control over the wolf, and I am positive that I will not be able to hold it back, no matter how much I try. When he takes over, it is his show.“  
His mind was racing now. “I mean…maybe you could prepare your wolf that it will happen and not to fight? God, I am so sorry, I am just not sure what to suggest here. It all sounds so wrong.”

“Yes, I know John - that was not what I meant.” Sherlock closed his eyes, his face unbelievably young and fragile looking under the messy head of curls.  
“I think I may already have a solution for this problem. I have been thinking about it a lot, you know.”  
Another wave of guilt washed over John. While he had been sulking and feeling sorry for himself, Sherlock had been trying to figure out how not be raped after their next transformation. God, he was pathetic. 

“Stop blaming yourself John, it’s not helpful and honestly, rather pathetic.” Sherlock’s voice was a low growl. 

John flinched. Could that man read minds as well?

“Now, here is what I was thinking. You and your wolf are one. You share a deep connection. You share the same mind, after all. So I believe, if it is similar to what I am experiencing, and the chances are good that you are, your wolf is quite prominent in your mind several days before and after the transformation. My wolf for example always wanted to cower when he saw you, willed me to show my throat. It was almost like multiple personality disorder with both minds clear at the same time.”  
Sherlock now addressed John directly.  
“Can I confirm that it is the same with you?”

John nodded without delay.  
“Yes. He almost talks to me, but on a mental level. And what he says makes sense a lot of time. You are correct, Sherlock. “

“Mmmmm. And he is not around at the moment, is he?”

John shook his head, though hesitant.  
“No…but he never really leaves anymore. He does not influence my actions or talk to me, but I KNOW he is there. In the back of my mind. He is always watching now.”

Sherlock nodded. “Well, no use delaying this. As I mentioned, I believe there is really just one solution to our problem.”

The doctor’s eyebrows arched questioningly. 

Sherlock took a deep breath.  
“John. I believe we should have a consensual relationship. A sexual one, of course, to allow our Were’s to get used to each other, even if just in the back of our minds. I believe consensual coitus would be best, but you are the _Alpha_ male here so to speak, so please do let me know if this is not agreeable. 

John felt blood rush to his face (and yes, somewhere else too, but he dug his fingers into his chest and the pain made it go away). He sat up fully, eyes Sherlock wearily. 

“Jesus, Sherlock. What the fuck are you talking about?”

The light blue of his roommate’s eyes were mesmerizing to John, scanning him thoughtfully. He felt like a deer in the headlights.  
“I mean, you are always homosexually inclined, yes? I have seen the way you look at me, seen you reactions and how you tried to hide them. They have decreased since the transformation obviously and are much less aggressive, but they are still obvious. So it should not be a problem of attraction, and it would show my wolf and I a different side of what would be our relationship.”  
His eyes watched as John cringed, as if he was burned by the obvious truth of the words.  
“Also, I am not averse to this solution either. You are a good-looking man, Dr. Watson, even if you have some troubles with depression, they can obviously be led back to your prolonged state in this institution. Your choice in reading material is excellent, and I am positive that you were not watching when you ran the cooking channel for almost a whole day. You are less annoying than most people and so far have also been less stupid. I have given this a lot of thought, John, and I am not put off by the idea.”

John just stared at him.  
Swallowed. 

“Sherlock…I am not GAY.” His voice wavered much more embarrassingly than he had wished for.

Holmes snorted.  
“Bisexual then. Really John, it does not matter how you phrase it. Or are you not sexually attracted?”

The picture of white skin flashed before John’s eyes, and he scrambled from the floor to his legs.

“I….I….No, Sherlock, I mean…. _I need to think about it. "_

Sherlock did not move, though his eyes had followed John.  
He smirked.  
“Sure, John, take your time. I would suggest, however that we start with the association in 2 days the latest, that should then give us 10 days to get used to each other and work out all the flaws.  
That way there will be less awkwardness for our Were’s to deal with.”

John just stared at the pale man still splayed out on the floor.  
His cock was twitching in interest.  
Damn it.  
Sherlock just grinned.

Confused and surprised, John stumbled to his bunk, threw himself down. 

What a difference a day makes.  
Fuck.


	12. And then porn happened....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:   
> This chapter contains some of John's I-am-not-gay Angst  
> And then some lots of happy Johnlock porn.  
> All the good stuff I think you will approve of. 
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
>  
> 
> x

Sherlock sat down on John’s bed, watching seriously as the older doctors kneaded his hands in his lap, covering his genitals, a dark red flush spreading down along his chest.   
“I don’t think i… I don’t know how to do this Sherlock.”  
He did not raise his eyes. Did not dare to look at the young man next to him. 

Sherlock raised a hand and touched John’s chest, letting his fingers run slowly along the fine hair that covered the front. 

“Mmmm. Never been with a man? No worries, I have. Plenty of times. We should be able to figure this out, I am sure.”

John was surprised by the statement.   
Even though he was not sure why.   
Why was it always such a surprise when someone told him they were gay? 

“You have done this before…”  
Not a question.   
A statement.

Sherlock huffed but continued to play with the hair on John’s chest.   
“Of course. Sexual need is a disturbing bodily function, but I have obliged when necessary. It makes for better thinking and relaxes the body. It is good for the immune system. There are really almost no drawbacks to consensual coitus. Apart from STD’s of course, but I do not believe in having partners without protecting myself. Obviously.”

“Ahhhh…..” John was flustered. For some reason he had not seen Sherlock as having sex.   
Ever.   
Then again he hardly knew the man.  
”But we…wont be able to protect ourselves now…”  
Sherlock stopped his stroking motion for a second before he gave a playful pull on the hairs.  
“No…then again, you fucked me once already. If either one of us – and I know I am clean – should be infected, it is too late anyway.”

“Right, of course…” John fisted his crotch some more, embarrassed by the obvious interest of his cock to the touch (god, it had been so long since someone touched him without gloves…) and the flush in front of his chest spread further. 

Sherlock noted his reaction and let out a small laugh.   
“Well, Mr. Watson, if I did not know better I would think you were a virgin! I guess you are in a way. How about you lie down and make yourself more comfortable?”

“Ahhhmmmm….I…ok then I guess….” John sputtered.   
He had always believed himself a man with both feet on the ground and a level head, but now he felt like he did when he first kissed girl.   
He had been 12.   
Afterwards he told his mates that it had been gross. 

Then again, he was in a glass box under bright, fluorescent lights, with a man he had raped (ok, fine in his wolf form, but who would think him normal claiming _that_ ), and with several cameras watching from all angles.   
And he was sure that they were watching.  
Probably even recording.  
Jesus.

John had always been a - ‘make love in the dark’ in the evening, preferably Friday night- kind of guy, nothing too kinky, lots of snogging, a small amount of foreplay, and that was it. He was flustered when the girls were too demanding, and the weirdest thing he ever did was having his hands tied to the top of the bed while getting a blowjob.   
It had been his birthday.  
The knot had opened halfway through, and he had just held on to the headboard instead. 

So yeah.   
Sex in the light with an audience and a young, hot guy….was…rather unsettling. 

John laid back, his hands still cupping his cock which – thanks to his continuous worrying – was now limp. He himself, however, was stiff as a board, unable to move, taking small, shallow breaths that sounded too loud in his own ears.   
Sherlock hummed under his breath and leaned over John, planting small kisses all over his torso. 

Good God. 

John held still for a while, then the panic overwhelmed him.   
“Stop. STOP.” He struggled to get up, pushing Sherlock away.   
Holmes moved with the grace of a panther, giving John the space he needed immediately. 

“I am sorry, but this is …just so FUCKED UP!” John was breathing heavily, clasping at his chest where he could feel the damp spots where the man had kissed him. 

Sherlock leaned back. “I know, John. Sorry.” His blue eyes bored into John, studying his form.   
“How about I lay down and you can go at your own pace. You are the _Alpha_ after all.”  
John winced slightly at the last word, but felt a reassuring hand on his back.   
Not an insult then.  
Just a statement. 

He felt how Sherlock hit the bed behind him, his weight slumping down on the mattress.   
John waited a minute or two (or maybe longer) until he slowly turned around and looked.  
And it was a sight to behold.   
Truly.   
Sherlock was on his back, relaxed, his blue eyes focused, his pale, long, lithe body turned towards him.   
All for his to take. 

John swallowed.   
He took a deep breath and turned his body fully towards Sherlock, facing the young man sprawled out on the bed.   
“I am not sure what I am doing…..just tell me….if something feels wrong…”

“Sure, John, sure. Just go at your own pace and tell me if you want me to do anything.”  
Sherlock had a small smile and a calculating look in his eyes that John could not miss, but decided to ignore. He lowered his head to Sherlock’s neck, placed his nose into the collar bone and just breathed. He smell that came from the body beneath him was warm and salty, with a hint of male and cigarettes.   
Sherlock smelled like pure sex.   
John, not sure what to do, not really a seductive lover, smelled the throat of Holmes for a while, placing his body next to the detective.   
He felt like a dog that needed to ground himself, using the scent of the other dog to keep himself calm.   
It worked.  
He nuzzled the Sherlock’s long, warm neck, giving small bites that were encouraged by the wanton sounds that rumbled from the pale man’s throat.   
John relaxed and shifted to climb onto the small, single bed next to the man, not daring yet to get too close, to touch too much skin.  
Never looking at Sherlock’s cock.   
That would make things too real.

Holmes hummed when John stopped, then took the doctors face, focused on him with his light blue eyes and then placed a tender kiss on the man’s mouth.  
John froze for a moment, not sure how to react, but when Sherlock only kissed him lightly on the lips, not pushing or being in any way invasive he allowed himself to lean into the kiss, tasting the warmth of the mouth, carefully prodding with his tongue along the open lips. 

He could feel his wolf growl in the background.

They stayed like this for a while, John slightly uncomfortable as he was squeezed into the little space that Sherlock left him, his hands resting next to Sherlock’s head. They kissed tenderly, and then Sherlock opened his mouth further and let his tongue flick from between his lips, almost teasingly, running them along John’s mouth, slightly pushing between but never invading.   
John shuttered a breath, realizing that Sherlock was holding himself back, and therefore decided to take his own initiative, pushing his own tongue between the plump lips into the saltiness of Sherlock’s mouth. The kiss was very different from how it had ever been with a woman, the taste and smell muskier, the lips, though large and soft-looking stiffer and more forceful when kissing.   
Demanding.  
Hot.  
John could feel Sherlock’s lips curl up in a smile as he kissed back a little harder, his hands now exploring Johns back slowly, running up and down his the nape of his spine sensually. 

Another wave of anxiety washed over John, and he drew back, breathing heavily.   
On the one hand, he was turned on, which still was a slightly shameful feeling for him. 

Sherlock stopped his hand, but left it in place, still touching the doctor’s back, grounding him, holding on to him.   
“John? Are you all right?” His voice was soft and warm, but John could detect a hint of impatience in it.  
“Yeah…it’s just… so weird to know that someone is watching us. Probably recording. I don’t feel very comfortable about that.”  
Sherlock’s eyes slid past John, focusing the ceiling where they both knew that the black spheres on were constantly watching them. He glared at them for a moment, then shrugged.  
“Yeah, well. I would suggest to just ignore them. There is no place we can go anyway, and I think we should just give them a show! Make THEM wish they were in here.”   
Sherlock grinned, leaned back once more and pulled John Watson in for another kiss, this time taking the lead, plunging his tongue deep into the mouth of the doctor. 

John froze for a moment, then a wave of heat rushed through him, and his wolf made small, whining sounds. _TAKE HIM. HE IS OFFERING HIMSELF. YOURS. TAKE HIM._

And so he did. 

He rolled over, covering most of Sherlock’s upper body with his own, his left hand digging into the unruly curls, twirling them between his fingers, giving little tugs. They were silky, with small streaks of red and lighter brown threading through the darkness, framing Sherlock’s face.  
John trailed his hand into the back of Holmes neck and gripped as he pulled away, trailing down Sherlock’s chin to his neck to give another couple of nips.   
The small bites were as much his own doing as a demand of his wolf whining in the back of his mind, and he felt happy to oblige.   
Sherlock had closed his eyes and groaned when John’s teeth scraped his soft skin around his Adam’s apple, trailing down further.  
Then the small width of the bed made moving uncomfortable, and without a second thought John straddled Sherlock, pushing his legs next to the man’s hips, not yet allowing himself to rest down on the white skin, but floating slightly above it.   
His cock, a little more than half hard now, dangled down and touched Sherlock’s stomach, leaving a small drop of pre-cum behind. 

John hissed and pulled back.   
“I am sorry, Sherlock, I did not mean to….”

Sherlock growled, leaned forward quicker than the doctor could get up, and curled his long, slender fingers around John’s cock, holding him in place.  
Watson’s breath hitched, and it took him a moment to remind himself to continue breathing.   
“Sherlock….” He whispered.   
Holmes sat up now, pushing John down onto his thighs, letting his hand wander up the now almost fully hard cock of the man straddling him, tugging lightly at the foreskin. His other hand curled around John, resting on the small of his back, stabilizing the doctor who was wavering.   
Watson was now breathing hard, his eyes glazed over, focusing on the wall above Sherlock’s head, his hands fallen to his sides.   
Sherlock watched the doctor’s reaction, smiling lightly as he let his fingers wander up to the small slit on John’s cock, letting 2 fingers twirl at the tip, spreading the sticky pre-cum around with small, sensual movements, rewarded with a hitch in breath from the doctor.

“Good God…” John slumped forward slightly, resting his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, his gaze falling down to observe what the younger man’s hands were doing. 

Sherlock leaned forward to steal another kiss, his mouth hot and hungry. 

His hand grabbed tight to the width of John’s cock, and pulled it down slowly, the pre-cum lubricating, until he reached the base where he pressed his fingers together for a moment, giving a squeeze around the shaft.   
John hissed at the feeling and Sherlock chuckled softly, allowing his hand to pump slowly, opening it slightly to go up the now fully hard prick and pushing the foreskin over the head, just to pull it down again carefully, his fist hot and tight around John, making him growl.   
All John could do was to hold on, then he dropped his hand and felt the long, slender cock of Sherlock jutting out between his thighs, and he grabbed on to it.   
He felt like he had to return the favour, like he should do _something_ with his hands…

“Wait…I have a better idea.” Sherlock mumbled, struggling slightly to free himself.   
John rose up, allowing the man beneath him to get out, and he was pushed back, resting on his back on the mattress.   
“Just relax John, I was told I am pretty good at this.”

Sherlock’s left hand pushed down on John’s chest as he leaned down.   
And then John felt Sherlock’s hot mouth engulf his cock, taking his breath away.

Sherlock started at the tip, tasting the salty pre-cum, licking it in swirls from the head, suckling slightly, pushing his tongue against the slit, teasing it.   
John froze for a moment, then he closed his eyes, digging his fingers into Holmes unruly curls, clasping the softness of them.   
His wolf growled happily.  
John could not keep the noise from leaving his throat.   
A low, feral rumble.   
He did not even notice. 

Sherlock could not keep himself from giving another smile around the red-hot cock in his mouth, then he sucked in his cheeks and swallowed John’s cock in one go.   
“Nnnggggghhhhh…..” John’s back arched into the feeling, tightening his grip as the heat took him in, too many sensations flooding his system at once. Sherlock’s mouth was hot and tight and wet around him, and when he swallowed him down he could feel the tightness of the throat taking him in, not rejecting his length…   
Sherlock held his place, then swallowed around the prick hot and heavy in his throat. His fingers were still curled around the base of John’s prick, pulling down to keep a slight tension, then he pulled his mouth back slightly, allowing his tongue to swirl fast around the shaft in the space he created.   
John reacted with a low moan, lifting his legs and curling them around Sherlock’s shoulders, holding him in place unconsciously with his fingers still digging into his hair.   
The strong reactions and underlying possessiveness was a real turn-on for Sherlock who felt himself grow fully hard now, and he removed his hand from John’s stomach to touch his own, now-oversensitive prick. He gave a small gasp when he felt the slightly dry heat of his own flesh and shot his hand forward once more, releasing John from his mouth.   
“Make me wet, Dr. Watson!” His own voice was now slightly breathless, and before John could answer Sherlock swallowed him down once more, taking him all the way while shoving his own fingers into John’s mouth.   
The doctor gave a low undignified whine, then pulled himself up slightly, sucking wetly at the fingers as his hips jerked involuntarily, fucking himself up into the tight throat that surrounded him.   
“Jesus…Sherlock! I think I am going to come…soon….”

He had not masturbated for a while. 

While Sherlock did not mind swallowing, he decided to leave it for another time, and pulled his hand from John’s mouth.   
He did not pull away himself, but instead swallowed John’s cock more in one swift movement, then he drew back, spreading his long fingers around the shaft. The prick was now slippery from his mouth and Sherlock gave several sharp pumps down John’s cock, while fucking himself into his own right fist.   
The detective sat up fully, John’s legs sliding off him, leaning back into the feeling of jerking off while holding another man’s prick in his hand. John opened his eyes for a moment and saw Sherlock above him, red face and flushed chest, head thrown back as he fucked into his own fist in the same rhythm that he masturbated John.   
It was one of the sexiest things Dr. John Watson had ever seen in his life.   
Ever. 

His spine arched as he felt his balls draw up, the orgasm building in the bottom of his spine and then he came with a shout, hot threads of cum painting his stomach as he curled over, his own hands shooting forward to hold on to Sherlock’s wrist, his cock fast becoming sensitive to the touch.   
He allowed Sherlock another couple of rough jerks, his hips jerking as he thrust up twice more into the hand holding him, then he relaxed back into the bed, breathing heavily. 

Sherlock let go of him, slithering his body forward, almost cat-like while still pumping his right fist on his own cock as searched for John’s mouth with his own. He kissed the doctor hungrily, forcefully as the almost obscene slick sound of him touching himself grew louder over their hungry kiss.  
Then Sherlock drew back, nuzzled his head into the small of John’s throat as he arched his back, giving a hard bite as he came himself, pushing his cock into the warmth of Watsons stomach, the small of his back shivering as he gave a couple more thrusts, smearing his warm cum over the man beneath him, marking him as his own.

Sherlock sighed, and slowly, shackingly lowered himself next to John, his breath still fast, pressing his hot body against the doctors.   
John curled his arm around the tall, lanky man, breathed in the spicy scent that was so very much part of the detective as he lowered his face into the brown curls, pulling the body that was splayed over his chest closer. 

They breathed for a moment, both in a warm, blissful state. 

“Fuck….Sherlock…that was….”

Sherlock went still for a moment, the pushed himself up on his arms.   
“Dr. Watson, you do realize that you use profane language a lot, yes?” There was a grin on the face, making him look much younger than his years.

John laughed, drawing Sherlock close once more. 

Holmes grinned, then relaxed and snuggled into the doctor’s chest.  
“But yes, my dear Watson. Fuck, I believe is a good description.”  
And the two men laughed, comfortable, neither aware nor probably caring that a crowd had gathered around the monitors on a much higher floor, watching the two men relax together on the small bed.


	13. The result....

By the time the dinner arrived, the two men had fallen asleep, arms around each other, slightly cramped in the tight space of a one-person bed, but not minding it.   
They were woken by the slide of the doors to the outside, an almost Pavlov reflex as they rose to wait for their dinner to be delivered.   
Both ignored the stares of the soldier who were serving them and retrieved their food, an Indian dish as John happily appreciated.   
There was no talking while they ate, and John had drawn back into his embarrassed self, not knowing what to mention.   
Sherlock just looked smug. 

 

The next couple of days Sherlock continued to “assault” John, with kisses and more, and John grew comfortable around the brilliant young man and his warm body, inquisitive long fingers and insulting intelligence.

Sherlock continued to touch John, but they did not attempt to have actual intercourse, on the one hand side as there was no lube and John was also still worried about Sherlock’s internal injuries.  
Instead they snuggled, jerked each other off and John tried his first careful attempts of giving a blowjob. 

Otherwise life in their cell just….went on.

Sherlock would still pace, if not as much as he used to.   
Sometimes he would scream at the ceiling, screaming for his brother Mycroft, profanities until John could take it no more and silenced him with kisses. 

John would ask Sherlock questions about his life, previous cases, anything, some which the detective answered; other’s which he simply grunted at, few which he ignored.

The doctor learned quickly that Sherlock loved talking about his work, so he would ask questions about his most interesting cases he remembered.   
There were stories about bombs and prostitutes, whips and suicides, orange pips and…rabbits? Yup. Glowing rabbits.   
Sherlock did not always distinguish between animals and humans when a case was interesting, and about some things he spoke with a callousness that made John shiver. 

But the brilliance of Holmes mind also intrigued Dr.Watson in a way he could not describe.   
And it moved them closer on a personal level.   
For apparently no one had listened to Sherlock before, appreciated his mind for what it was.   
Brilliant.   
Absolutely brilliant. 

 

Around 5 days before the next transformation John could feel his wolf slowly submerging from the depth of his minds, growling happily when Sherlock was close.   
John’s sense of smell grew stronger, until a day before the change he could not keep himself from sniffing Sherlock’s scent along his neck, hair, chest (yes, he had to keep himself from going lower…), and he caught himself grumbling happily at the smell of the younger man.  
( _OMEGA. OURS. MINE._ )

He did note Sherlock becoming a little bit easier to spook, flinching when John was suddenly behind him, the doctor driven by his need to _smell and taste and BITE, JOHN, BITE!_ but when he forced himself to place a calming hand on Sherlock’s hip and pulled him close softly while nuzzling his ear or neck from behind, the young man relaxed into the touch, closing his eyes. 

It had been a good idea by Sherlock to get them acquainted to each other before their Were’s came out once more.  
The closer the transformation approached, the more animalistic John felt, a suppressed hunger for Sherlock bubbling in his throat, and he had to force himself from not pulling the detective close to him, biting him, claiming him, taking what his Were believed to be his. 

But Sherlock, to John’s surprise seemed to have similar urges aroused by the full moon approaching, and when he grabbed John’s hair possessively, while at the same time baring his throat for his mate’s mouth, he whispered hoarsely:   
“God, John, I wish you could fuck me!”

And all Watson could do was growl, his erection growing as he took hold of the cock of the dark-haired man, drawing a whine from Sherlock’s throat, running his fingers a touch too hard along the length that was growing under his touch.   
“Oh, my dear, I am going to take you, and you are going to scream for more….” he growled.  
And with that he pulled Sherlock’s head back with his one hand digging into his silky curls, which had grown a tad too long, while his other hand pumped up and down Sherlock’s shaft, biting, nibbling, _CLAIMING_.

The transformation took them more or less by surprise as it was hours early. 

John did feel the _PAIN_ and _NEED_ and _ANGER_ and _CHANGE_ curl in his stomach, and then, his hand still clinging to Sherlock’s cock - he was forced to his knees, his Were taking over, breaking his body and skin to give him his other form. 

His wolf wanted out, wanted to take over. 

The doctor’s hands let go of Sherlock as he started to cringing, allowing the pain to wash over him once more _would that never get any better?_  
While the screams he could not suppress bubbled from his throat he felt Sherlock cringe and twist next to him, and a strong surge of pheromones, adrenalin and endorphins washed through him. 

_MY MATE IS WITH ME._

And then his Were was standing over Sherlock’s wolf who was still panting from his transformation, John nuzzling happily at Sherlock’s neck, licking the dark coat, soothing his pain away.   
The dark wolf, once he regained his composure, sniffed John hesitantly, then returning the favour, grooming the Alpha’s coat, familiarizing himself with the scent of what he believed to potentially was his mate.   
The Blonde’s tail wagged happily as he started to make little mock-attacks towards the black wolf, who in turn recognized the game and laid back his ears for a moment before he rolled on his back, baring his throat.   
Scrambling back up, attacking the blonde wolf himself.

Showing that he would submit.  
But not yet.

The two wolves ran around the room, depleting their pent-up energy in the mock play-fight. 

Finally John stayed behind Sherlock as he chased him, his nose digging into the warm opening of the black ones ass, smelling the warm, rich scent of the omega.   
Sherlock whined for a moment, stopping, turning, going around John to smell him himself.   
John continued to sniff and finally started to give small licks at Sherlock’s hole, tasting the salty scent of what he knew to be his mate.   
Sherlock whined low in his throat, then he stood still, bending his tail to the side to allow the blonde easier access. 

And John accepted the invitation, his cock emerging from his sheath, as he licked and nuzzled Sherlock’s back, tasting the natural lubrication of the omega Were - starting to flow, stimulating the black wolf to prepare him what was about to come.  
Sherlock held still, then gave a small, impatient whine, lowering his front, presenting himself, asking to be claimed. 

His scent was rich and ready. 

John responded to the invitation, slinging his forepaws around Sherlock’s middle as he mounted him from behind, aligning his cock with the welcoming hole and pushed in with a growl, his hind legs quivering as the heat of the other embraced him.   
Sherlock gave a little whine but John could not hold back any more, his instincts taking over and he nipped the base of the omega’s neck to hold him in place as he started to fuck into him.   
And the black wolf whined with a low voice, but finally lifting his ass higher to be penetrated deeper, needy little sounds escaping his throat, mixing with the dark growls from John.  
And John lost himself in the smell and feeling that was Sherlock, that was his. 

 

When they woke from their transformation, for the first time John did not feel _haunted_.  
As usual, he was disoriented and instinctively checked his body for hurt and pains other than from the knitting muscles and bones before he turned himself onto his back, but otherwise he felt… _Well._.  
He allowed himself to rest for a while before his mind cleared enough to think about Sherlock. 

He pushed himself up, eyes scanning the room. 

Sherlock was curled up next to John’s bed, snoring peacefully.   
The doctor forced his body to move, to crawl over to the young man, eyes scanning for wounds, letting his fingers run over the pale skin.   
There were some bite marks, but only bruises, none which had broken the skin, and, more importantly, John could see no tell-tale smudges of red between Sherlock’s thighs. 

The waking detective moved when he felt John’s exploring fingers, turning into the touch and warmth.   
“John…” he muttered, arms closing around his cell mate, pulling him closer. 

Sherlock Holmes plan had been a success.


	14. Moriarty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, almost two years later. For me, that is, not for the boys.  
> Wow, who would have thought I would ever continue this? My very first Sherlock fic?
> 
> I have been getting loads of requests for me to continue this piece and I decided to take it on.  
> So this is me, stretching my writing muscles again after giving it up for a while, and I can tell you tit is harder than I would have thought. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy....
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> x

And life in the cell went on.

Over the next few weeks John got to know Sherlock better than he had ever any other human being ever before. He knew his smell, soft and musky, could start reading his eyes that changed like the weather, darkness curling like storm clouds in them when he needed his space but light and twinkling when he was in the mood for a fuck. He could read from his body language when he was stir-crazy and when he calmed; he could read in his hands whether he was starting to accept their situation or not.

And John slowly, _very_ slowly, learned to read Sherlock Holmes body when he pleasured him. When his kisses were wanted. 

And when they were not.

Life went on as well as it could in their situation.

 

Their hair continued to grow, John's now almost touching his shoulders and Sherlock’ turning into a shaggy mop of brown.  
John never stopped asking for it to be cut, speaking to blank-faced soldiers, continuing to plea, to beg, to demand.  
Finally, after weeks, his requests uttered so many times he forgot to count, someone was brought in the cell sporting a pair of scissors and a razor, mouth set in a hard line as the woman watched Sherlock and John being tied to chairs that were brought along, held in place to be groomed.

Still not taking chances then, John mused.

They shaved his beard off and his hair down, all the way to his skin, almost in one go. 

They did the same to Sherlock' stubble but took pity on his curls and just cropped it down to about 2 cm away from his scalp. 

He almost laughed when they released him and his fingers started wandering over his freshly shaven skin, loving the coolness of the air on it, as if he had taken a fresh shower, loving how clean and groomed he felt. 

Almost human. 

John traced his fingers along his cheeks, his chin, feeling the prickly scratch, reveling in it for the first time in... how long had it been? Months, for sure. A year, perhaps.  
Maybe even more?

Jesus, it probably had been even longer.

It scared him a little that he did not know.  
It scared him how much time he lost.

 

Sherlock stared at him as if he had never seen him before, his own hair now shorter than when he had arrived, the cut inadequate as his curls were shorter in some places than others, but then again John had not believed that they would bring in a professional hair stylist for a couple of freaking werewolves.

He grinned when the detective stepped up to him and let his fingers run over the contours of his face, as if had to learn the structures of his features anew. 

“You look much younger without a beard”. Sherlock's voice was a little rough.

He sounded sincere.

John huffed and then grinned.

“Maybe we should ask for some lube next time.”

Their laughter filled the cell.

 

 

Everything changed when the new prisoner arrived. 

But not in a good way.

 

Sherlock and John had been sitting on a bed, back to back, John reading a book on the screen while Sherlock was mumbling under his breath, revisiting experiments he had run in the past, re-arranging his mind palace, as he called it.

It had been John's idea and had kept the taller man busy for a couple of days already, which had been a relief in comparison to the constant pacing and fidgeting that seemed to be part of Sherlock's personality.

The door opened half way through their morning, without any warning or cause, and both men immediately stood, staring towards the crowd of soldiers that walked in a naked man, small between the counterparts.

A new cell mate.

John’s stomach dropped at the sight of the new prisoner who’s eyes were fixed on the floor, head bowed slightly, and when he raised it John noted that his eyes were dark, almost fully black. 

His right arm wore a big bandage.  
Not good. 

The doctor had felt dread when the door had opened, as nothing _good_ had ever come through them (apart from Sherlock, but it was sad that they had to be here, to meet this way) and when the new prisoner raised his eyes, John shuddered involuntarily.

_Madness._

The man stared at them as he was led to Sherlock’s old cell, never taking his eyes of the two prisoners in the next room as the soldiers retreated, gaze unblinking, cold.

Dangerous. 

The smaller, dark-haired man did not acknowledge the soldiers leaving, and slowly cracked his neck as the door to the outside shut with a loud, distinguishable noise.  
John’s eyes wandered over to Sherlock when he heard him make a sound, ripping his gaze away from the new detainee with difficulty. 

Sherlock was tense, hands fisting at his sides.  
He looked like he was going to be sick.

“Moriarty.”

He whispered it under his breath, almost not audible. 

John’s eyes flicked back to the man, who continued to stare. 

“Sherlock.” The voice was smooth, like silk, low, with an Irish lilt.  
The mouth of the smaller man was pulled into a grimace that mocked a smile.

“Well. What a _surprise_ , seeing you here.”  
Those black eyes slid over John, slowly, up and down the blonde mans body, and the corners of his mouth curled downwards as if he had tasted something foul.  
“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Say, are you _cheating_ on me? Did you get yourself a _boyfriend_? And here I thought you and I had something _special_!”

The grin grew even wider, almost freakishly so, but it never reached the man’s eyes. 

John shifted uncomfortably, his eyes wandering between his lover and the man across the glass wall.

So close. Yet so very far. 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock’s voice was low. John was surprised the man across the glass could make out the words.

“Ah…yes. I was wondering where you were! I thought we had something going there, and then you just.... _disappeared_. Months ago. ”

A pout on that face, dark eyes narrowing. 

“I had a little _game_ set up, just for you, and you did not….react. At all.  
I blew up two buildings, leaving wonderful clues and _nothing_!  
I was starting to get _worried_. So I decided to try and find you. Did not quite turn out the way I wanted it to. But then again, neither did it for you as I can see.”

There was a smirk on the man’s face, while the eyes continued to stare.  
The silence was long, almost uncomfortable until Moriarty finally moved, craning his head, checking out his surrounding.

“Oh dear, rather dull in here, is it not? And you have been here, how long Sherlock, 3 months? 4? It must have been so very _boring_! Is that how you met your friend?”

The glittering eyes settled on John, who felt an ice cold shiver run down his spine.

The voice continued, mercilessly.

“I can't believe you replaced me so very quickly.  
Always thought you were above those kind of things, Sherlock, but then again, I guess when you are bored and locked away in a cell, what else is there but to fuck to kill the boredom. But really, Sherlock, I am disappointed in you, it is such a _peasant_ thing to do.”

He leaned in closer, face almost touching the glass.

“I would have thought you _above_ that!”

John numbly watched as the man shook his head, tsking under his breath, fingers wandering over the glass dividing them. He noticed Sherlock next to him straightening his spine, standing taller. 

“Moriarty. Have you been bitten?”

“Naaaaa.” Jim drew out the word like a toffee candy. “I just decided to have myself stripped and escorted to a cell for fun, you know, something to take my mind of things.”

John could see the change in the body of the smaller man, see him pulling his bandaged arm closer to his body before he exploded.

“OF COURSE I WAS BITTEN!” Within second the man relaxed again, laughing under his breath.  
“I followed your trail Sherlock, trying to find you, and for some reason it ended in Baskerville.  
Wolves, huh, Sherlock?  
Who would have thought?  
And here I thought you were chasing fairy-tales....“

Madness.

Definitely madness.

Both men glowered at each other, Sherlock stepping forward, his hands resting on the cool glass. 

John watched them for a moment, the air surrounding them thick enough to be sliced with a knife if he had one, then he cleared his throat. 

“ I am sorry, but clearly you two know each other. My name is John Watson.  
And you are?”

He turned, sending a strained smile towards the man, knowing for a fact that they would spend a lot of time with each other, hoping they could start of ......... well.  
Better than they already had. 

Cold reptilian eyes settled on John. 

“Ah. The boy-toy.” The eyes left John and settled on Sherlock.  
“Though not that much of a _boy_ , is he now? Never would have thought older men are his thing.  
Then again....”

He took a slow turn, looking around the room, as if to make a point.

“.....I guess there was not too much of a choice, was there, Sherlock?”

The face that turned towards John was a sneer, almost...hurtful.

John felt himself stiffen just as he saw Sherlock step away from the glass, his shoulders hunched, almost protective.

The detective said nothing.

Neither did John. His hands clenched at his sides.

 

“Oh....” It was almost in-audible, but Moriarty breathed out a long, surprised groan, eyes widening, stepping back from the glass, if just for one second.  
Gaze flicking between Sherlock and John.  
Calculating.

Then a wide, false grin spread over Jim Moriarty's face.

“ _OOOOHHHHHHhhhh...._.....” Again, another word, pulled apart like a sticky sweet, as if he could taste it in his mouth. “ I _see_ ”  
The grin was now directed towards John and the man pressed himself against the glass, rubbing his body almost obscenely along the cold, slick enclosure, as if he could get nearer to the couple of men standing just opposite of him.

“It was not really consensual, there, was it, Sherlock?”  
If a grin could split a face, then Jim would have started bleeding at this point.

“What did he do, sweetheart, did he take what he wanted when you turned him down? Did he beat you and fuck you without your consent?”  
Now Jim's tongue emerged between his lips and flicked along the glass, leaving long, wet streaks n it's wake.

John felt cold, as if all the air had been punched out of him. 

How.....?

“Did he ask you nicely at first? And when you said no, again and again, he finally took what he needed? Has John Watson spend too many nights by himself to step back from what was offered to him?”

Jim leaned in closer, face pulled into a hideous mask of a sneer.

“Tell me, Sherlock, did you _scream_?”

“STOP!” John could not hold himself back, the words breaking out of him, anger blossoming in his chest as he listened to Moriarty talk, as he saw Sherlock's whole body stiffen in front of him, knowing full well that his own horror of being found out could be read on his face, but knowing that the man across of him was _wrong_ , it had not been _him_ but his _wolf_ and how _dare_ he bring this up when Sherlock and he had just worked through that.

“Now, LISTEN here you....” His own voice sounded raspy in his ears, but he had to clear this up, made this man understand that he had not....not.....

“JOHN!” Sherlock's voice was low and raspy, and he could see how hard it was for the taller man to break his gaze away from the man across the glass, to look at the blonde man that was confined with him. “Don't....”

John took a couple of sharp breaths, his whole body had heated and the wolf in the back of his mind had stirred, it's interest peaked at someone upsetting their _mate_ , but it was too far gone, too far from the next full moon to fully wake.

Instead John stepped up to Sherlock, pulled him in, protectively, the taller man fighting the ministrations for a short while, his eyes never leaving Moriarty across the glass. 

“John, I....”

“No, Sherlock. No. He is wrong. I don't care who that asshole is, but....no. Just no.”

Sherlock relaxed in his arms, then slowly peeled himself out of them, stepping away from John as they could hear the crazy man laugh under his breath in the next cell. 

The detective turned to Moriarty, now standing tall once more, eyes blazing.  
“That is not what happened, Jim.”

There was silence between the three men for a moment, Jim's body still pressed against the glass, fingers drawing lazy circles on the cold walls of his cage, writing non-nonsensical words onto the wall.

“Mmmmmmm......”. Jim Moriarty held himself a couple of seconds longer, black eyes staring, reading, examining, and then all of the sudden he pushed himself back, taking a couple of steps into his cell.

“Well, I must say, Sherlock darling, at least it won't be _boring_ , the three of us here.”

No.

Not boring.

Anything but.


	15. Stories. Fairytales....

No.

The last thing that Jim Moriarty brought along with him was boredom.

After having been calmed by Sherlock and turning his back toward the small, black-haired man , John had done his best to ignore their new cell mate.  
He was brash, his comments hurtful, and it worried John that Sherlock's eyes kept slipping back to the Moriarty, studying his features, as if drawn to the madness that Irish sod radiated.

And John did his best to suppress the ridiculous bouts of jealousy, reminding himself that before Sherlock Holmes stepped into his life he had considered himself straight as an arrow, and that if he had been free that the fidgety, abrasive detective would have been pretty low on his list of potential partners. 

A friend, yes. 

But not more.

Deep in the back of his mind his wolf growled, uncommon as still so far from the full moon, but John was upset and it had roused his Were, faint and imbedded deep in his subconscious, and it startled John that it recognized Moriarty as an enemy even though he hardly knew him.

 

Sherlock was torn between the novelty of his greatest adversary in the cell right next to him and his lover drawing back to the opposite side of their room, watching him as John's hands ghosted over the TV screen, closing the book he had been reading, drawing up the archive of entertainment they now had access to.

Giving Jim another glowering look Sherlock tore himself away, sitting opposite of the blonde, hands folding on his lap. Sherlock had never been good at conflict resolution and while he knew that John was upset he was not sure what to do or how to handle the situation.

He could hear Jim snicker and forced himself not to turn his head.

“John.”

The blonde tore his gaze away from the screen and turned.  
Sherlock could read from his body that he was upset, jealous even, and it made the taller man lean forward and awkwardly place his hand on John's arm.

John's eyes flicked up to him and he could _read_ the hurt and confusion in those blue eyes, darkened by the emotion.  
It gave Sherlock a twinge in his stomach.

He realized that John had no idea what to do in this situation either.

Lost.

Both of them.

They stared at each other for a short moment, then John leaned in, keeping his voice low as if to prevent their new cell mate from overhearing them. 

“How do you know him?”

Jim must have pressed his ear against the glass to understand him anyway, his lilt was shockingly loud and unaccustomed in their otherwise quiet world. 

“Ah, Sherlock, you did not _tell_ him about me? I am almost _offended!_. Then again, I guess you had too much to do, getting acquainted to your rapist, huh, love?”

John turned and snarled.

Jim just grinned, crooking his neck one more time.

“My oh my, maybe you should put a leash on your dog, honey, it looks like Johnny-boy may have a touch of rabies.”

John's wolf growled in the back of his head and he closed his eyes, his hands running over his face, kneading his temples.

Sherlock's smoky voice was dark and soothing, and one of his hands glid up to John's shoulders, stabilizing him. Pulling him back to Sherlock, to them sitting on the bed, talking to each other.  
Away from the crazy, hurtful man in the next cell that Sherlock had never mentioned, not once, not even briefly.  
There had been so many stories over the months from the detective, of common criminals and murderers, of Chinese crime-syndicates and scientists that had tweaked their results, Sherlock proving them wrong. Stories of boyfriends and enemies, Sherlock had even told him about his brother. 

But not once had the detective mentioned a man called James Moriarty.

“It's a long story, John.”

John's hand fell to his side, and he opened his eyes, staring up into the quicksilver ones of his lover.

“Well, you know something, I have nothing else to do.”

Both men ignored the faint chuckle of their new cell mate.

Sherlock studied John, and then he sighed, turning his eyes to the ceiling, John trying his best not to growl at his friend at the obvious show of disdain.  
He closed his eyes and forced himself to calm, tried to send his Were back into the confinement of his mind.

_Not now._

“Do you remember the cab driver case I told you about?”

John's eyes snapped open and he studied Sherlock, sitting slightly hunched opposite of him, shoulders drawn up defensively, his hand still laying on John's arm. 

“The one with the poisoned pills – the apparent suicides?”

Sherlock grumbled appreciatively under his breath.

“Yes. That one. It seems he had been paid by Moriarty to murder people.”

By now Jim had lain back on his own bunk, staring up the at the ceiling while cradling his injured arm, voice low and monotone.

“I am still glad you did not kill yourself that day, Sherlock.”

John snarled at the intrusion.  
Their privacy had been strongly compromised for such a long time, but now to even be interrupted when talking? 

Sherlock turned toward Moriarty abruptly, voice clear and cold as ice. 

“Jim, you need to let us talk!”

Moriarty turned his head slowly, lazily to the side, dark eyes studying Sherlock without emotion.

“Whatever, love.”

He turned his gaze back at the ceiling but kept quiet as he listened to the discussion.

And Sherlock told John everything.  
It turned out that when the detective had chased down the cab driver he had not, as he had told John previously, just walked out of the room and left the man sitting to be picked up by the police after he confessed – No.  
Instead he had taken the pill that was offered to him. 

He had taken it into his mouth, just as the cabbie had, and both of them had been ready to swallow. 

Then there had been a shot. 

And then Jim Moriarty had walked out of the dark from across the room, tutting under his breath, scolding Sherlock for falling into such an easy trap, telling him that the detective was no good for him when dead. 

No fun.

Sherlock had not swallowed the pill. 

He had been dumbfounded (even though he did not use those words when telling the story) and had stepped towards the crime lord, this new, interesting adversary.  
Jim had promised to return soon, to send another game the detective's way, and had left, not before warning Sherlock that he would shoot him in the leg if he tried to follow. 

 

That had been the first time Sherlock had met James Moriarty.

 

Sherlock told the story without any emotion, and he looked at John questioningly when he was done. The blonde swallowed, not sure how to react to the new revelation, then turned to Moriarty and saw him grinning at them across the glass. The small man's finely groomed eyebrows went all the way up, wiggling almost obscenely.

“Was not going to let such a hot piece of ass be wasted. And aren't you glad about _that _, huh, Johnny-boy?”__

__“My name is JOHN!” His voice was loud in his own ears._ _

__Turning back to Sherlock was hard._ _

__“You were going to take that pill? That man had murdered ...what...3 people before?”_ _

__“4. And I had him figured out. I was a the simple bluff of a simple man. Not hard.”_ _

__John just stared at the detective, shaking his head in disdain.  
He had so many questions._ _

__

__Xxxx_ _

__John asked whatever came into his mind throughout the rest of the day, the two of them ignoring the food that was slit through small squares in the side of the wall right onto the bolted-down tables._ _

Apparently Jim and Sherlock had NOT been lovers.  
It had been John's first questions and he fiercely ignored the loud cackle from Jim's cell and the shocked and equally disgusted look on Sherlock's face. 

__As if it had been a stupid thing to ask._ _

__But the answer calmed the blonde man and his Were, if only a little._ _

It seemed that Moriarty had played a long and elaborate game with Sherlock for months before the detective was brought here, the criminal selling out some of his contacts and requesting Sherlock's time and attention in the counter-move. 

While they might not have been in any sexual relationship, John could hear from the stories, spoken almost reverently by his lover that there was some sort of affiliation between the detective and the criminal.  
Just two men with great minds playing games, as Sherlock put it.  
Keeping themselves from being bored. 

__Costing lives of innocent people, John had snarled back at him._ _

__The dismissive wave had drew another chuckle from Jim and John had stopped the questioning for the day, eating his food in silence, then laying down, trying to read, just to have his mind wander._ _

He needed to think.

__

__There were approximately two weeks left to the next full moon and now it was John who was pacing the cell as his Were had been woken early, fidgeting in the back of his mind, watching James Moriarty with obvious disdain._ _

__

The day went by.

__Sherlock and Jim chatted._ _

__But never for long._ _

__John glared at the dark-haired man, kneading his fists as he listened to him talk to Sherlock, overhearing them mocking each others intelligence, James bragging about crimes he committed, Sherlock sneering at him in return.  
Neither of them spoke about private matters, and in the end it was almost boring hearing the two throwing insults at each others head. _ _

__John found it best to ignore them._ _

__

__The days went by ever so slowly._ _

__

__Obviously touching each other was out of the question._ _

__Even at night the light was still on, if turned low, and each touch and caress between John and Sherlock was observed and fully commented on by their new neighbor, who cawed the first time he saw John slip his hands around Sherlock's hips as they were watching a movie together, a loving gesture meant to soothe and calm but defiled by the commentary._ _

__“Please, don't stop on my behalf, I am a HUGE fan of live porn, I _swear_.”_ _

__John massaged his temples, Sherlock shot him a sorry look, and they kept to themselves over the next couple of days._ _

__

__Then James Moriarty got sick._ _

__About 5 days after he was brought in his cell his taunts and catcall quieted down, his cheeks flushing red with fever, showing obvious discomfort when holding his injured arm.  
He had been infected and while John and Sherlock knew what it meant, Moriarty did not. __

Sherlock did explain it to him, but the sarcastic curl of the criminal’s mouth showed how much he believed him. 

__Or not._ _

Medics, heavily clad in hazmat suits and surrounded by 4 soldiers visited the Irish daily, taking his temperature, taking blood and redressing the bite-wound on his arm.  
Jim tried his best to keep quiet, but soon he was taunting the soldiers with their guns, hopping up and down his cell as they entered, howling like a monkey or laughing like a madman at their muffled warning from behind their masks.  
But as the days went by John could see that the man was in more and more pain, cradling his arm protectively, a red flush on his cheeks and chest indicating his rising body temperature. 

By the eight or so day of his imprisonment Jim sat silently on his bunk as the medic and soldiers entered, glowering at them from under his lashes like a snake.  
He kept quiet as his wound was dressed, but this time, before the medic left, Jim smiled at the men covered in hazmat suits, black eyes wide and slightly glazed with fever.  
“Excuse me, love?” 

The man turned towards him and Jim grinned, wide, before he spat into the doctor's face, a fat drop of saliva hitting the man's cheek as the horrified man fell back with a suppressed scream, gloved hands quickly wiping at the offending fluid, scrabbling to get back, away from Jim.  
The soldiers reacted instantaneously, shooting four sedative dart into Jim's chest, slowly backing off as Jim stared down at himself, giggling, pulling out two of the bright red darts before he fell back, his eyes turning in the back of his head. 

John and Sherlock had stood, staring at the spectacle that unfolded in front of them, watching in silence as the medic was ushered away, at gun's length from the other soldiers.  
As his mouth and face had been covered in protective gear , John was rather certain that he would not infect himself with the disease that was probably transferred by bodily fluids, but he could understand the horror in the man's eyes as they slipped over them, the naked prisoners that were kept like animals in cells, never to see the light of the sun again. 

They left Jim for mere moments, slumped unconscious on his bunk, before a whole crowd of soldiers and medics returned, as many as 10, one of them pushing a small metal wagon loaded with medical equipment John could not make out. 

They roughly pulled Jim onto his bed, settling him on the mattress before they tied him down using medical bonds on his wrists and ankles - heavy, thickly padded leather bracelets that attached with chains to the side of the metal frame of his bed.  
When he was tightly secured a wide, see-through muzzle was slipped over Moriarty's face and buckled in place in the back of his head.  
Last they took another array of readings and blood samples and then pushed a needle into Jim's left arm, securing it with tape and attaching it to a large drip bag that was secured on the wagon next to him. 

__Once Jim Moriarty had been fully immobilized, the soldiers and medics left once more._ _

__John was really glad he never had the idea to spit at the guards when they were not expecting it._ _


	16. Blessed Silence

The silence in the cell was long after the soldiers had left.  
Both John and Sherlock had not been surprised by the action of their captors, knowing the risk of infection and the fear that was portrayed in their eyes every time they had to come into contact with their medical subjects. Still, knowing what could happen if they as much as scared their captors and actually witnessing it, Jim being secured so fast, merciless and almost brutal in the efficiency was frightening to see. 

John was on his feet and now shifted as he watched as Sherlock was stepping up to the glass, leaning forward to study the small, unconscious man across in the next cell.

His voice was low, without emotion.  
“He's out. Breath is shallow and slow, wound on his arm has bleed but stopped.”

Sherlock stayed for a few moments longer, taking in all the facts, reassuring himself that Moriarty had not come to any harm before he stepped back and turned towards John. 

His cell-mate was staring past him, into Jim's cell, eyes not focusing on his tall, slender lover. 

Sherlock hummed under his breath then climbed onto his own bed, twisting his legs underneath him as he sat. His eyes never left John, studying, reading him.  
The blonde had stopped staring and sat on his own bed, back stiff, feet set neatly side by side on the floor.  
“Well, at least he stopped being such a nuisance. That guy won't stop talking.”  
He knew it was a weak joke, but John needed to break the silence.

Badly. 

Sherlock's mouth pulled up into a smirk. He leaned back into the cool wall behind him. 

“This is the first time in days that you stopped being so tense.”

John closed his eyes and breathed. It was true.  
His Were had calmed completely when it was clear that Moriarty had been drugged and he felt like a weight had been lifted of him.  
He knew it would last only as long as Moriarty was out, but for now it was relaxing. 

“Is your Wolf gone?” Sherlock's voice was deep, almost a purr. 

John's eyes snapped open. 

“No. He is still there.”  
He raised a finger, tipping it against the side of his skull, smirking.  
“But I can hardly feel him. It's the quietest it has been in days.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Your Wolf has been awake since Moriarty was brought, that very first day. He has never left you, always in the back of your mind, sizing Moriarty as a potential threat, keeping you on edge.”

It was not even a question. Sherlock had been reading him very well.  
John gave the smallest pause before nodding.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock hummed, his head leaning to the side. 

“Interesting.”

John felt a flash of heat fisting into his stomach, hair bristling at the confident grin on the detective's face. 

“What is?”

“It's just, you have been changed approximately a year before me and while I can not feel the Were unless it is right before the Full Moon you seem to be integrating its presence more and more into your mind without the stimulus of the planetoid. Your moods have been quite unstable ever since I have arrived and you do sometimes stop as if to listen to someone speaking in your head. It may have been just a quirk, led on by your long-term imprisonment, but since Moriarty is here your testosterone levels obviously peaked as you are sporting risk-taking behaviour such as aggression, territorial demeanour and general idiocy. It's fascinating, really.”

“ _Fascinating?_ ”  
The fire in John's belly had not been reduced by Sherlock's speech and John felt his hands fist into his sheets.

“Fuck you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grinned.

“Did I mention your sexually dominating displays?”

John grunted. He bore his eyes into Sherlock's pale ones, trying to read his lover. 

The detectives voice had lowered about two octaves, it was even a little rough.  
“Increased testosterone does increase the sex drive, does it not, doctor?”

John growled. He could not help himself.  
“Why don't you come here and find out?”

The detective grinned, standing in one fluid motion that should be impossible to do as a human being and crossed the room with just a couple of short strides, climbing onto the bed next to John.  
His full lips were pulled into a one-sided smirk, but his eyes had darkened, lids were low with heavy lashes almost brushing his cheeks. 

John inhaled sharply, staring at the vision that was Sherlock Holmes, then he leaned forward, burying his hand into the mop of unruly curls, pulling his mate into a crushing kiss.  
Sherlock moaned under his breath as John's lips connected with his, his tongue thrusting roughly into the others mouth.  
John had been sexually frustrated for days, and his cock was erect within seconds as the men now leaned into each other, hands gliding over hot skin, along backs and flanks, both avoiding their erections for now as they mapped each others bodies.

“John....” Sherlock moaned, and fuck, if his voice did not sound like pure sex, and then the blonde pushed him back onto his bed, covering the long, lean body with his own, shorter and more muscular.

He did not give a rats ass about cameras as his hand glid down Sherlock's dry skin, over the navel down his coarse, dark pubic hair, gripping his long, slender cock with his fist.

_Take him. Take our omega, make him submit, make him OURS!!!_

His Wolf had reappeared but John pushed him back into his mind, ignoring the feeling of hurt that his Were emitted at the treatment.  
But this was for him. 

And he needed no more spectators. 

“John....!" Sherlock whined again and then he threw his head back and gasped as his lover nipped at his throat, then licked down along his chest to his cock, the saliva cooling hot skin.  
John licked a hot stripe down Sherlock's curving erection, watching as a drop of pre-come appeared on the tip, and then he took him in his mouth. 

The sounds that his lover made were almost as delicious as the musky taste of his prick, and John swirled his tongue around the head before he sucked him down into his throat, repressing his gag reflex as his lips touched the nest of dark curls on the slender stomach, breathing through his nose as he swallowed around it, once, twice.

He looked up at his mate, Sherlock's face and chest flushed, eyes squeezed shut as he bit the back of his hand to stifle his moans. John now moved his head up and down, sucking his cheeks together to create more friction, fisting his own, straining cock t as his other hand curled around the root of Sherlock's prick, sliding up and down the wet erection. 

He did this for several minutes, sometimes pulling off to suckle the top, tongue dancing up and down the shaft before taking him into his mouth again, swallowing him down, slurping and sucking, Sherlock's breathy gasps loud in the quiet room. 

The detective's back curved off the mattress, his hands now fisting into the sheets, toes curling beneath him. 

“John.....John....I am going to ....going to.....ngghhhhhhhhhhh....”

John drew back before the detective could come, leaving the dark haired man gasping and then he covered the long body with his own once more, catching the full mouth with his own lips. His cock rubbed along Sherlock's erection and then his fist enclosed them both, Sherlock's prick still slippery with his saliva and he started pumping, faster and faster as his lover writhed and gasped beneath him. 

He came fist, drinking in the sounds, taste and vision of the man , quickly followed by Sherlock, hot spurts of cum hitting their chests and stomachs, caught between the two bodies now slippery with sweat. 

John gave them a couple more rough strokes, milking them for the last drops, then gave Sherlock another long, lingering kiss.

The detective looked up at him, cheeks flushed crimson, lips red and swollen, eyes dark and hooded. 

John smiled, kissed his nose and carefully rolled off to lay next to him, their heavy breathing loud in the room. 

“That was....nice.”

“Hmmmm.....” John could not agree more. 

It has also been bloody necessary.

He cuddled closer, pressing his body against the pale skin of his lover, placing his arm over Sherlock's body.

They lay there until the drifted off into sleep, the cooling semen drying on their skin. 

 

xxx

 

Jim woke during what was the middle of the night, rattling his chains as he did, sounding disoriented and angry as he snarled behind the plastic muzzle over his face.  
It woke the two men curled around each other on John's bed, both rising and watching the small man silently as he shouted at them, black eyes fevered and _mad_ , jerking his hands until his wrists started to bleed. 

They watched him until he calmed, dark blood once again blooming on the bandages around his arm, the flush of fever now spreading over his chest and glazing his eyes.  
At one point Moriarty started to laugh, a hollow, hacking sound that made John's hair stand up from it's roots, and he pulled Sherlock back to bed, spooning behind him as they laid down, Sherlock staring towards Moriarty's cell, watching until the crime Lord quieted. 

Their sleep was restless after that. 

 

x

 

Both Sherlock and John could feel the Full Moon coming on, and it forced them closer together, especially with John feeling distinctly territorial and threatened by Jim in the next cell.  
Sherlock joined him on his bunk during the nights, both taking advantage of their cell mate knocked out by the fever that was taking over.

John tried hard to suppress his training as a doctor these days as he scanned Moriarty again and again, the man weak and bound, the red flush and glassy eyes of the fever too obvious to ignore. He tried not to care when the crime lord cried out in his sleep or flinch when the dressing on his wounds were changed, the bite mark of the Werewolf red and angry, weeping blood and puss and showing clear signs of infection.  
He did not read the labels of the medication that was finally administered ,wondering if Moriarty was going to make it through the next full moon.

And John, so many years into battle and caring for the sick, tried hard not to hope for James Moriarty to die. 

 

X

 

The Full Moon was upon them in another two days. 

With his Were closely on the surface for most of the month, John could feel the change coming on much earlier than he was used to, panting under his breath as he continued to pace, eyes never leaving Moriarty's curled up form in his bed, growling under his breath when the man moved or opened his fever-glazed eyes. 

Jim jerked and turned, sleep uneasy, bound tightly and weakened by the fever.  
Still, John could not suppress a growl.

Sherlock had slept in John's bed these last couple of days, but as John got more and more agitated he moved into his own bunk, watching the blonde carefully, his arms slung around his knees as he watched his cell mate pace the room. 

 

The crime lord was still very sick, features gaunt and sunken in but an awareness was now gleaming in his eyes, and while he still seemed too weak to talk or make his usual snide remarks he cackled madly every now and then, drawing an angry snarl from John.

 

That day for the first time, John changed early, hours ahead of time.

 

His knees gave way and as he curled his body onto the floor, arms flaying at his sides as his bones broke and the hair pushed through his skin, fully aware of Sherlock's shocked expression and the crime lord staring at him across the glass. 

He howled as his spine cracked and extended, as his shoulder blades widened and thick claws pushed out his own finger nails, his Were's mind now taking over, dark and animalistic, pressing him back into a corner of his own consciousness. 

When he was fully transformed John panted, feeling hot anger wash through him as he saw Sherlock, so small and naked on his bed, and behind him there was the _ENEMY_ the _THREAT_ , the _OTHER_ that made his fur stand up and forced a deep growl from him. 

Jim Moriarty had sat up as much as his bindings would allow, large black eyes burning over the plastic muzzle, and John bared his teeth and snarled, slowly approaching the glass, his whole stance screaming dominance. 

James just stared, black eyes wide and uncomprehending and then he jerked in his restrains, trying to get away from the beast that approached him, fever-addled brain forgetting about the barrier.  
Moriarty whispered something and Sherlock thought he could catch “Fairy Tales.....” and then Jim let out a high-pitched scream filled with terror as John snarled and attacked, throwing himself against the glass that separated the cells, the Werewolf ignoring the pain and the fact that the wall did not even start to budge. 

John could hear Sherlock behind him in his human form, soothing sounds directed towards him as he threw his body against the barrier again and again, and stiffened when he backed up once more to gain more leverage to feel a hand on his fur, stroking it lightly.

John turned and snarled until he realized that his mate was right beside him, _his OMEGA_ in human form, but so close to the _THREAT_ , the _ENEMY_.  
He growled as he turned, facing his human mate, smelling fear sharply in the air as the dark haired man slowly sank to his knees, his eyes large, fixated on the massive wolf in front of him.

“It's ok, John, it's only me, Sherlock, please, you need to calm down before you hurt yourself...”

The words were a white noise in the Were's ears but he could hear the hint of angst that wavered under it as Sherlock stretched out his arm once more, allowing the large Wolf to smell him, to remind him who he was.  
John sniffed Sherlock's arm, grumbling menacingly under his breath as his wet nose ran along Sherlock's warm skin towards his chest, crowding the kneeling man with his large, canine body. 

He could hear the _other_ make sounds behind him and growled, realizing that while he might not be able to fight the _enemy_ he could at least protect his omega from the threat he could not reach.  
John pushed Sherlock away from Moriarty into a corner, teeth fasting in the soft tissue of his human mate's neck and forcing him down to the ground to submit.  
“JOHN!” Sherlock's wail was pained, but he knelt down easily, arms curling under him, head to the side to show his submission.  
John could smell his fear anew, piercing his nostrils with it's acidic smell but all he could think about was _PROTECT_ and he let go with his teeth, nipping Sherlock's soft, hairless skin to calm him down. 

Once he was sure that Sherlock would not move from his position John raised his head, muzzle pointing towards Moriarty, teeth gleaming in the artificial light. 

The small human that had angered him for so many days now had laid back down as he weakly pulled on his chains, gleaming black eyes like saucers as he shivered violently. 

John realized that the other was sick, but best to destroy the _enemy_ while he was weak and bound and he lowered his body closer to the floor and curled his lips exposing his teeth as he once more gathered the strength for another attack.

His mate below him moved just before he was about to strike and he could feel the small hand on his hind leg and the soothing voice low but urgent in his ear, distracting him.  
“It's OK John, he is not going to hurt me, it's ok John, please, it's ok....”  
Sherlock continued to babble, familiar dark voice dark trying to hide the fear that wavered in it, his hand now tentatively reaching for him as he stroked the blonde fur lightly, begging for the golden Wolf to calm.

Moriarty had taken to cackling hysterically, the indignation of it burning under John's skin.  
But he could feel how upset his mate was like heat radiating from the small body and that the _other_ posed no immediate threat, so instead of attacking he turned, giving Sherlock a quick, calming lick before he plopped his ass down next to the man on the floor, watching, guarding. 

They sat there for another two hours before Sherlock changed himself, John standing back and watching from a small distance as his mate kicked and screamed, writhing on the floor as his bones shattered and rearranged themselves, limbs growing longer and black fur pushing through skin.  
Once he stopped flaying John licked his mate through his pain, nuzzled him as he lay there panting from the change.

Moriarty transformed not much later.

They could hear the man rattle his chain as he started to scream in terror, arching of his bed as his bones broke, convulsing as he tried to get away from the horror of the first time changing into his Were, unable to comprehend what was happening to him with his fevered mind. Once his fingers had retracted and plumped into paws he managed to pull his arms free of the cuffs, leaving human skin and blood in its wake.

John snarled and pressed against his mate to shield him from the _other_ , and they both stared as Moriarty was finally free of his bonds, falling off the bed onto the floor, body convulsing as the change had its way with him.

When it was over Jim turned out to be a rather small, sinewy Wolf with large, yellow eyes that brimmed with intelligence but were now clouded in pain and confusion. His fur was shaggy and matted and when he tried to rise his mind could not cope with the addition of the extra pair of legs, falling again and again as he backed away from John and Sherlock who were staring at him from across the glass, the blonde wolf growling menacingly. 

John charged the glass once more before Moriarty could find his bearings, the black wolf too close to what John considered his s territory as he catapulted himself against the barrier, heavy body crashing against it with a loud thud as he hit it. 

He could not break through but he recognized with grim content that the black wolf had backed of as far as he could into a corner, fevered eyes focusing on him as Moriarty growled and spit. 

John panted, shaking his head in pain as his last attack had opened a deep gash above his eyes that bled profusely, standing with his legs spread and ears laid back, teeth exposed as growled. 

He heard Sherlock approach from behind him, giving him a soft nudge into his flanks and he backed of, allowing Sherlock to now crowd him as both wolves sat on the opposite end of the room, Sherlock's raspy tongue cleaning his head wound and then the rest of his body with even licks. 

For the rest of the night John never stopped watching Jim across the cells, standing immediately when the other Were moved, but Moriarty had collapsed in a small heap in his corner, making himself as small as possible as they could see the fever burn him from within. 

It was a very long, tense night that seemed to never end.


	17. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry my updates come so slow. My Neurologist has changed my meds....again....and this time I feel like my creativity is being sacrificed for my well-being. Writing has become so very hard. 
> 
> Which is super scary but at the same time, I am better, so I guess that is something, no?
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, and at the current speed of me typing the next one should be out just before the next season of Sherlock but possibly after the Cumberbaby, but it is still something to look forward to, yes????
> 
>  
> 
> xxxx

Their change the next morning was almost a relief, and after the pain forced both Sherlock and John to their knees, howling as their extended bones, additional muscle mass and extensive hair condensed and pushed back into their bodies, both of them passing out and falling into a short but deep, healing sleep.

When Sherlock woke the first thing he saw was the large, raw gash on John's forehead, his lover laying on the floor just opposite of him.   
He blinked, stretched, checking his own limbs for injuries and finding none, then leaning forward to the blonde to have a worried look at the damages the change brought along.   
The skin had split over John's left eye into a ghastly, bloody laceration, running all the way into his hair line, a few trails of blood sneaking down his face as the wound had bled again due to the transformation.   
The eye under the wound had closed, a large bruise forming around it and extending down to the cheekbones. Sherlock let his finger hover over the gash without touching, assessing the damage, eyes scanning the rest of the body, slipping over several bruises and abrasions, red, black and blue.

He hissed at the amount of hurt even though it seemed mostly superficial, John's Were had managed to damage his human more than he should have. 

Carefully Sherlock pulled back. His own body was, surprisingly, almost pain-free. The more changes they went through, the easier it seemed to be on him.  
At least that was something. 

Also, his Were was not an idiot and had continuously attacked a wall because of some imaginary threat. 

Sherlock watched John sleep for a couple moments longer, but he felt refreshed and slightly restless, so he pushed himself off the floor to walk across the room to the small bedside table next to John's bunk. He opened it, pulling out the large, plastic water bottle and kneeled to push the red emergency button that was located inside the drawer.

A static hiss was momentarily heard as he pushed the button, then there was silence.   
Sherlock cleared his throat.  
“We need a medic, John is injured and may require stitches.”

He held the button a moment longer, waiting for a reply, but when nobody answered he let it go. 

Sherlock pushed himself back up and looked over into Moriarty's cell. 

Jim was still in the corner his Wolf had drawn into, curled up into a small ball, shivering almost violently and moaning under his breath. Sherlock felt a pang of worry for the obviously very sick criminal, but pushed it away from him.  
Jim had shown to be resilient in the past, and he would survive this as well.

Also, sentiment for one person was enough work already, and he was going to concentrate on John. 

Sherlock took the water bottle back to John, who was now stirring as well, moaning under his breath.  
He unscrewed the top of the bottle, going to his knees next to the doctor, watching him as the blonde man's eyelashes fluttered over dirty cheeks, slowly opening them as he shifted onto his back.   
A hiss escaped John's lips when he rolled over, likely onto one of his many scrapes or bruises, and then he pushed himself to sit up, groaning softly under his breath.

Sherlock watched him as he finally sat, legs curling under him, fingers tentatively touching his own face, hissing at the radiating pain when he grazed the open wound on his forehead.

The detective softly held the doctor by the writs and pulled his arm away.  
“Stop, you idiot, you will introduce dirt into the wound. I called for the doctors.”  
John nodded and thankfully accepted the offered water bottle from Sherlock's hands, eyes squeezing shut at the pain when he opened his mouth, contorting his face to drink.

He took several swallows and handed the bottle back.

“Thanks.”

Sherlock nodded and drank himself. 

Turning into a Werewolf was thirsty business.

 

The medics with their familiar company of gun-wielding soldiers appeared about half an hour later, but they went to Jim's cell first.   
The small man had not moved from his position on the floor, curled into a ball, now seemingly unconscious.

The medics approached the crime lord with extra caution now that he was out of his bonds, but it was soon clear that Moriarty was not going to attack or even move.  
Moriarty groaned when he was rolled onto his back, and past the wall of soldiers Sherlock could see the red fevered flush over his features and the wound on his arm where the bandages has peeled off during the transformation. He winced when he saw the wound, red and puffy, oozing blood and puss, surely hot to the touch. 

Without being too careful Jim was hoisted to his feet and dragged back to his bed where the medics went into a practised routine immediately.  
They took their usual samples of blood and saliva, Jim awake but unfocused at what was happening around him while the doctors swiped some of the fluids from his arm. 

With quick, sure hands Jim was then washed and bandaged, his wrists receiving some attention where he had skinned himself when wrestling out of the handcuffs. The medics took his temperature and then fastened him back using the cuffs, securing the crime lord in place.   
The last treatment Moriarty received was a shot and then another needle was pushed under his skin, clear tubing attached and a large bag of what Sherlock thought to be Ringer or sugar solution attached over his head, the medic silently watching while a slow drip started.

The whole business was over quickly, a statement to the professionalism of the doctors. 

Then the group left the cell and turned to enter theirs. 

The soldiers, as usual, raised their weapons, red dots dancing over John and Sherlock's chests and foreheads, both now sitting side by side on John's bed.   
“Face the wall and kneel, hands behind your head.”  
The voice was cold and informal, but the command not unexpected and Sherlock helped John rise before they went down onto their knees and did as they were told, the doctors body a cacophony of pains.

Both men went through the routine of having their blood and saliva sampled, and then someone had a look at John's gashing forehead wound.  
Instead of stitching it up they simply cleaned it and then placed two butterfly bandages onto it, pulling the edges tightly together.   
And that was the amount of medical care John received that day.   
After that the two men were left to their own devices, to let their bodies heal themselves. 

Sherlock held back a growl when the soldier left, but once they were gone John took his harm.

“It's fine Sherlock, it is just a gash, it will heal.”

The detective knew that John was right, that nothing more could be currently done for him, at least not in this restricted area without access to pain medication, but he was still bothered as he looked into his lover's swollen black-and-blue bruised face.  
He knew John would suffer quite a bit of pain for many days to come, and it filled him with an unholy anger that he could not even describe to anyone. 

But Sherlock relented when John pulled him close and held on to him, listening to his blonde's laboured breaths, eyes wandering back to Moriarty's cell where the consulting criminal looked incredibly small and sick under the white sheets.

This was their lives now and Sherlock Holmes was not happy about it. 

 

 

Sherlock and John got back into a daily routine, the detective having discovered a crap reality TV program he stared at for hours, every now an then mumbling under his breath or screaming at the screen while John was focusing on reading up on the newest medical research he could find on uncommon blood diseases.   
Even if he could not conduct his own research or even look at findings he wanted to know if the Were...disease (for the lack of a better word) was spreading worldwide.  
He wanted to know if anything had been published to that regard.

But there was nothing to be found.   
Or he simply did not have access to it.

It was extremely frustrating.

Instead of venting his anger John picked up an exercise routine, jogging around the small cell, push-ups, crunches, shadow-boxing, anything to get rid of any build-up energy, allowing his anger to flow into the workout.  
He ignored Sherlock's snorts as he watched him, knowing that the detective would not understand the need to move and exercise. 

In the meantime John's wounds healed slowly, the bruises turning darker, brilliant blues and purples smudging over his face and shoulders, skin tender and painful to the touch. 

And Moriarty continued to be gravely sick, face white and gaunt between his sheets as he tossed and turned, sometimes murmuring under his breath, sometimes screaming in fevered horror and occasionally so quiet that John wondered if he died silently without them noticing. 

But the little Irish bugger hung on to dear life, the bags of fluids above his head changed daily, without avail. 

John knew that Sherlock was worried about Moriarty, seeing his lover glance over the at sick crime lord again and again, but they did not discuss the possibility of Jim not making it through this lengthy and rather serious illness. Instead they just went on with what was now their daily routine, Sherlock hoping for the best, John trying not to wish for the worst.

 

It was the 7th day after their transformation that Moriarty seemed to have fought off death and slowly worked his way back into the land of the living. 

John had slept in rather late, waking to Sherlock tapping fervently against the computer screen over his bed, cursing loudly under his breath, mind dead to the rest of the world.  
He rubbed his face, wincing at the diminished pain still radiating around his injured eye, grumbling under his breath as he placed his feet onto the cold concrete floor beneath him.   
He stood and looked around, eyes scanning Moriarty's cell, and he stiffened when he found Jim sitting up in his bed, face white but sweaty, eyes sharp for the first time in weeks.  
Jim did not speak, just stared at John for a long moment before he diverted his attention back to his shackled hand, shivering slightly as he tugged at it experimentally, harder and harder, the rattling now also drawing Sherlock's eyes away from whatever he had been watching. 

James Moriarty had lost weight, he looked gaunt, dark circles under his eyes, almost fragile.

He did not speak, just scrutinized his surrounding, taking in the big bag of fluids hanging beside him , eyeing his shackles, then his gaze wandering to Sherlock and John in the next room once more.  
His mouth was set in a thin line and then Jim just stared at his fellow prisoners for a long while, unblinking, John feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, glaring back into the black saucers that could be called eyes.  
Finally Jim huffed, eyes fluttering shut as he laid back down into his bed and curled into a small ball, back turned towards them, silent, unmoving. 

John exchanged a short glance with Sherlock, and then they both decided to let the criminal take the time he need, especially John Watson being thankful for the blessed silence. 

 

Within two hours of Moriarty moving a doctor with his usual encourage showed up, 

Jim was thoroughly checked, the bag of liquids changed, but after a short discussion with the soldier medic the criminal quietly agreed to the terms of the medical staff to have his cuffs removed, under the clear threat of permanent restraints being placed upon him if he ever dared to threaten any of the staff ever again. 

The answer was a subdued, muted nod, and John tried to not feel the pang of worry regards the obvious change of the criminal's demeanour. 

And Moriarty laid back into his bed staring at the ceiling.

Silent.

 

The next three days went by uneventful.

Sherlock tried to speak to the criminal, leaning in close to the glass separating them, asking how the Jim felt, aware that Moriarty's world had been turned upside down within the past couple of weeks and the change happening in his feverish state. 

But Jim did not speak. 

He just stared, black eyes huge in his white, thin face, studying Sherlock and his surroundings.   
He did not move, just laying and staring at the ceiling or opposite wall, hardly touching the food that was once again delivered to him, shutting himself off to the world.

John decided not to worry. 

He knew that Moriarty was strong. 

He would get through this phase and find himself soon enough once more. 

 

The next day food consisted of one of John's favourite dishes – an Indian Curry with rice, heavy and aromatic. John dug in while Sherlock ate little as usual.

The doctor first realized that something was wrong when the sides of his visions started to blur, and when he turned to Sherlock and tried to speak, his tongue felt like a foreign object in his mouth, thick and resisting his commands. John stood up, alarmed, and his knees gave way almost immediately, making the doctor stumble to the floor. 

“Sherlock...” His own voice came from far away and he realized that he was slurring his words, shaking his head to get rid of the cotton that seemed to fill up his thoughts, his brain, clouding his judgement.

The last thing he saw was the dark-haired detective stumbling towards him, and then blackness engulfed him.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

John woke slowly, his eyes heavy and his eyelids like sandpaper, scraping as he blinked, making an almost obscenely loud sucking sound as he opened them.  
His head felt like it was stuffed with an enormous ball of cotton, His mind and body were slow, a slur, and his frame of vision had narrowed down considerably, the edges fuzzy white, the rest of his images a washed-out fog.

John groaned, his hand rising ever so slowly to his face, wiping it, feeling strangely numb under his clumsy fingers. He groaned again, his tongue a thick, foreign object in his mouth, and he realized that he wanted water more than anything else.

He took a deep breath, once, twice and then opened his eyes again, pushing himself up slowly from his cot, his body not really listening to his fuzzy commands, his arms and legs hot, useless appendages. He shifted his legs over the frame of the bed, noting the thud that they made on the floor but not feeling as they connected, his fingers curling around the cold metal of the frame, the distinct awareness anchoring him somewhat. John let out a groan, shaking his head from side to side like a wet dog, and then he heard the hated Irish lilt, somewhat muffled through the cotton that seemed to be stuck in his ears.

“Johnny-boy has woken.”

_My name is John!_

He tried to form the words but could not, them etched in his mind but his tongue tumbled uselessly over them, and he decided it was not worth the effort.   
He realized that Jim finally spoke again after being silent for so many days, but the fact seemed hard to grasp and far away, slipping through his mental fingers like a fish in water. 

“John.” Sherlock's voice. Muffled. Muted.

But something he could cling to.

John closed his eyes, shook his head one more time, trying to rid it from the sticky feeling, then he raised his head.

The first thing he realized was that Sherlock's bed was gone.

His thoughts were slow and it took the doctor a long while to understand this fact, staring at the empty space opposite of him, where Sherlock's bed used to be.  
There were distinctive holes in the ground, black, almost like nails hammering into his consciousness.

John swallowed, blinked, eyelids sticking together and separating with a wet sound, and looked again. 

Empty space. Black holes. No Sherlock. 

Somehow the meaning of this did not register in his brain and he looked around, careful as vertigo took over, almost toppling him off the mattress.

He was alone in the cell.

John's breath hitched and his eyes moved rapidly around the room, stumbling to his feet as cold panic washed over him, the space so much bigger without the second bed.  
Without Sherlock.

“John.” Again the detective's muffled voice and the doctor turned towards it, stumbling in the direction he could hear his lover.

He looked up and could see him, across the glass, blurry but distinct. 

In Moriarty's cell.

The sound that escaped his throat could not be described as human, it was a low and pained and John stumbled and fell to his knees as he saw Sherlock across the glass, his hands pressed against it, curls tumbling over his forehead, eyes large and sad.

“I am so sorry John.”

The man that used to be a soldier, a fighter, a man that used to kill people just kneeled and stared, tears resisting to form from his dried-out body, making sounds deep in his throat that could only be described as sobs.

John just stared at Sherlock, and he rose slowly, stumbling as he made his way to the glass, eyes never leaving the detective, that bothersome and crazy and intelligent mad-man, and finally he reached his glass and his hands rose, touching them on the same level as his lover, trying to force a connection through the glass.   
As if he could reach through walls and get him back. 

“Sherlock....”

Sherlock's eyes were big and sad, and the detective let his forehead rest against the barricade, focusing on his John's fingers and how much shorter and thicker they were than his own long, slender ones.

Moriarty, out of his bed and wide awake, kept silent and did not disturb them, left the two man standing, grieving over something he realized he could hardly grasp. 

“Sherlock” John whispered. 

And then the fog blurred his vision once again and he did not resist as it pulled him back down into a deep well of oblivion.


	18. And then....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! You read this far? Awesome! Please take a moment to leave kudos in this case, cause it shows me you enjoyed it enough to stick around this long.
> 
> So we are almost there, this is the last chapter before the End.  
> And this story is fully finished, but because next week is Easter I decided to wait until then before I publish.  
> It will be my Easter present to you. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> x

“IF YOU TOUCH HIM, I SWEAR TO GOD, I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!”

John meant it. He really did. His Wolf was gnashing and clawing close under his skin, and John felt like his anger would set him aflame any moment now.

Fighting his way out of unconsciousness a second time had been somewhat easier, but when he woke he was sporting a splitting headache and his mouth was dry, tasting as if a small animal had died inside of it. For a moment all John could feel was his own body, pained, shaky, and then the reality of what had happened came crashing back into him once more. 

He had scrambled back onto his feet, shaking with pain and blooming anger, clawing at the glass as he stood, assessing the situation.

Sherlock and Moriarty were sitting on their beds, watching him as he rose, the detective getting to his feet to walk towards him.

John stared at his lover, fingers scrambling over the smooth surface for some kind of control, trying to touch him, unable to get a hold of anything but the slippery glass beneath his fingers.  
He felt himself pulled into the clear-water eyes of Sherlock, holding them for a moment, reading pity and sorrow inside them and _hating_ that he knew what the other was thinking so well. 

John stood, breathing hard, curling his toes on the cool floor, then turned his head towards Moriarty once more, his voice as cold as ice.

“I mean it. I will kill you.”  
He watched as the criminal shifted on his bed, that small mouth pulled into a sarcastic little smirk, and then John continued:  
“If you touch him, I will kill you. If you hurt him, I will kill you. If you do anything at all that he or I may find offensive, I will kill you. I swear to God, Moriarty. ”

James watched him, mouth pulling into a wider grin.  
The flash of insanity that John had seen before his illness was back. 

“Johnny-boy.” The voice was soft, almost whispering. “You are repeating yourself.   
It's oh so _boring._ ”.

The smirk grew wider, and the criminal lent back in his bed, looking as smug as he could be.  
His eyes trailed away from the doctor, slowly wandering over to Sherlock who was still watching John across the glass, gaze now drifting up and down the detectives body appreciatively.

His voice was low when he answered.  
“I never touched him before, you know. But looking at him, all naked and _available_ , maybe we should give it a shot, what do you think, _lover._....?”

John growled, back curling as his fit hit hard against the barrier between them, focusing on the cruel laugh that pearled from Moriarty's lips.

Sherlock looked disgusted for a moment, shaking his head at his new cell mate, then turned back to John.

“Look at me, John.” 

John continued to attack the wall, forehead pressed against the slick cool, trying to quell his rage and howling Were in the back of his mind. He stopped when he could feel his skin break on his knuckles, staining the glass red.   
He could see Sherlock bending down to meet his eye, looking up at him from under tousled curls. 

“John. It is going to be all right.”

There was a cruel, sarcastic laugh from Moriarty's corner.

John took a deep breath. 

“You don't know that.”

“Of course not. That would be impossible.” Sherlock pulled his mouth into a frown, pressing himself closer to the glass, closer towards John.  
“It is actually very unlikely.”

There was a moment of silence.  
Then Sherlock focused on him once more.

“But it is something that should soothe your fears. Ease the anxiety, yours and mine. We have to stay positive. I remember reading it about it once. We will work though this, John. Somehow.”

John straightened his body, looking at Sherlock, loosing himself in those clear eyes.  
This show of trying to soothe him was....out of character, to say the least, and he knew how much the detective must have thought about what to say to him for a while before he woke.

“I can't protect you, Sherlock. ”

He could hear Jim shift on his bed before that hateful Irish lilt interrupted them.  
“Don't worry, Johnny-boy. I won't rape your boyfriend in his sleep.”

He looked over, seeing Moriarty had tilted his head, staring at him without a smile on his face.

“But judging to that angry scar on his back, I would say you already beat me to that....”

The smirk that split the criminal's face was wider than before, but it did not reach his eyes. 

This time when his fist connected with the glass, John could feel something brake under his skin, and it felt absurdly good dampening his unholy anger. 

 

Medics. 

Again. 

Of course.

Today was no exception. 

After all, why should it be?

John was sitting on the floor, back to back with Sherlock on the other side of the clear barrier between them, cradling his hand in his lap, breathing slowly through the pain of what he believed to be a boxers fracture of the metacarpal bones. 

He had broken his hand while punching the wall separating them.   
It hurt like a bitch.

At the same time it had grounded John somewhat, pulling him out of that red-hot wrath he had been caught in, that had brought his Were close enough to the surface that he had wondered if he would turn then and there. 

But he hadn't.

And Sherlock had hissed his anger at Moriarty's who had not stopped laughing like a complete madman and then slid down to the floor to sit next to John, watching him as he cradled his hand without being able to touch.

And now the medics were here.

“Dr. Watson. Back off to the end of the room, kneel and place your hands on your head.”   
John shifted slightly, not turning his head, mind racing. 

His Were howled inside of him THEY TOOK HIM FROM YOU, MAKE THEM PAY, MAKE THEM _BLEED_.... and John pressed down slightly on the fingers of his broken hand, the sharp pain pulling him back to himself. 

KILL THEM!

_Shut up!_

Back to rational thinking.

His Were would have to wait. 

John's mind had been churning while he sat on the floor and he had realized that the tense soldiers just outside his door were expecting him to attack, knew about his anger, an obvious conclusion to them taking his ... _boyfriend_ from him.   
He glanced their way and the way they held their body, the extra-thick padding and the two extra-large stun guns they were carrying just proved his point.

Even the medics wore padding today.

John snorted through his nose as he shifted again, wincing when he tried to push himself to his knees.

“Don't do anything stupid, John.”

Sherlock's voice was a low whisper, and while it was not pleading John could certainly hear the weariness in the voice. 

The fear that John could get hurt even more. 

No. 

He needed a plan. He needed to get out of here, somehow....

“Dr. Watson. Back to the wall, kneel. This is your last warning.”  
John could hear the guns being shifted, higher, as the soldiers shuffled closer, red dots dancing on his chest as he pushed himself up the slick wall.   
He stared at the bulk of people opposite the glass, the image of each person burning itself into his mind.   
“Come on, Johnny-boy, show them what you are made of.”  
John ignored Moriarty's stabbing remark and knelt, painfully lifting his hands above his head and lowering them onto his neck, grinding his teeth at the sharp pain that shot from his ruined knuckles down into his body.  
He needed a plan.

The examination was quick, John trying not to moan when the medic took his hand and pushed experienced fingers against his flesh, the stabbing agony buckling his knees under him and sending a wave of nausea into his stomach.   
They applied a tight bandage and told him not to aggravate the brake, if possible.  
That was it.   
John swallowed down the burning anger, shutting his Wolf even further away into a deep, dark corner of his mind, trying to bring calm to them both. Now he was a soldier caught behind enemy lines, looking for an exit.

 

John Watson waited 4 days before he tried to escape. 

He continued to keep his calm as the soldiers watched him closely, noticed as they slowly let their guard down by the third day when he did not even swear at them as they expected.

But they were prepared for when he made a dash for it.

Of course.  
They must have seen it coming. 

After all, it was less than two weeks left before they changed again, and they knew as well as him that they were running out of time.

John had knelt as usual, his hands behind his head, his injured fingers curling, the pain sharpening his brain as he saw the medics make their way towards him.  
He waited for when the vial with blood was pulled from his arm when he shot forward, pulling the needle from the surprised medics fingers and holding it out like a weapon, scrambling to get to his feet as quickly as possible. 

He could hear Moriarty holler and noted that Sherlock was silent as he ran, the world around him slowing down, his vision narrowing and sharpening, focusing.

He did not even make it out the door. 

Within seconds he felt the dart puncture the skin of his back, stinging before going numb, and then a second one hit his left shoulder, into his the old, scarred bite wound, forcing a scream from his lips.   
John fell when his leg gave out, but he continued to crawl, trying to silence the white noise of his Were raging his mind and Moriarty continuing to scream and shout at him, telling him to go faster, that he had already made it, that he just had to work harder....  
Then a cattle prod pressed into his side and John started to scream as pain flooded his body and his vision inked over.

Later, much later, he wondered what he had been thinking.   
If he really had hoped that he would make it, run from 6 heavily armed soldiers that _knew_ that he was upset and dangerous, through a heavily secured military base.   
Naked.   
He wondered if he had really believed that he would be able to escape. 

And as John Watson was on the floor he cursed bitterly, shivering until the pain stopped coursing through his body and it went fully numb, loosing control over his movement as the sedation took over.  
He did feel it as he was dragged roughly back to his bed, away from the door, and then the drugs pulled him under.

 

When John woke he was chained to his bed, unable to move his arms or legs more than about 10 cm in each direction, a clear mask pulled over his face, a needle connected to a drip next to him.

For a moment he could feel panic crawl under his skin at the restraint but he forced it down as he experimentally tugged at the medical cuffs around his wrists, hating the clear, clinking sound the metal chains made as they refused to give.

He laid his head back into the pillow and ignored Moriarty's catcalling and the soft but urgent voice from Sherlock, too angry at himself and the rest of the world to react. 

The following days passed slowly. 

John was kept restrained to the bed and he absolutely _hated_ it.   
John's Were was howling and scratching under his skin, demanding to be released, the Wolf switching between lethargy and full-blown anxiety for days now. 

Very much like John. 

He could not keep himself from squirming on his mattress, feeling feverish as he fought down the Wolf who tried taking over his mind, the Were feeling betrayed by his man's inability to get their mate back, to flee, to somehow take charge of the situation.  
Every waking moment he blamed John loudly for the mess they were in, belittling him for getting caught, for being a stupid, useless , _weak_ human who could not even free himself of his current predicament.

John pulled at his chains, rattling them, secretly wishing that they had used steel cuffs instead of thick, padded leather to secure him so he could feel the metal biting into his skin. 

He needed something, _anything_ to ground him.

To pull him back into reality. 

Sherlock had watched impotently as John slowly slipped into depression and had tried to help by keeping John occupied, telling him about cases and facts he had not mentioned before, rambling on about the differences of callouses on fingers of pilots caused by various air-plane instruments, types of cigarette ash varying on the country of origin, differences in the ageing-processes of rose petals conditional on how they had been reared.... The detective was hoping for that light in John's eyes that he had seen before when Sherlock had talked about facts most people did not notice.

But it did not work.

John tried to appreciate his friends efforts, worked hard on listening and feigning interest in the never-ending ramblings, but in his mind he was aware of the time trickling by and his thoughts shied away from what would happen at the next Full Moon.  
And the knowledge and anxiety on not being able to make a difference, to having to watch whatever would take place after the next transformation gnawed at his insides and numbed him. 

 

It was only 5 days before they changed when the lights went out.

They flickered for a moment, and then they were plunged into darkness. 

For months and months the prisoners had been bathed in the same synthetic white light that was dimmed at night but never fully disappeared.  
It came as a shock to the senses when, all of the sudden, it was pitch black. 

“JOHN?”

The next instance a pulsing red light started to flash all around them accompanied by a shrill alarm that pierced the previous silence, deafening the prisoners. John's arms shot up instinctively to clamp over his ears to protect himself from the brain-melting noise only to be abruptly stopped by the padded cuffs digging into his skin, keeping them at chest level. 

John could make out Sherlock who had stood, fingers digging into his curls, eyes roaming the hall to look for clues. 

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” John was shouting the words but realized that Sherlock could not hear him over the noise the alarm was making.

He whipped his head around when something moved in the periphery of his vision, noting how the door to the hall opened and a pack of black-clad soldiers streamed inside, machine-guns held at eye-level, faces hidden behind black masks. The troupe secured them room, three of them quickly moving towards the cells, one of them switching on a bright flash light, shining it into the empty cells on their way over to them.

They reached John's enclosure first, the column of light gliding over his restrained body before it moved on to Sherlock's and Moriarty's cell, stopping at Sherlock's nude form, hovering for a moment.

The soldier holding the light made a sharp hand-signal and another man stepped up to the clear wall, quickly placing four small, black boxes into the square of the door, and then made some frantic arm movements for the captives to step back.

“SHERLOCK!” John screamed now, on top of his lungs and then there was the sudden, surprisingly dampened sound of a detonation, the shock wave could be felt even in his cell, cracks spiderwebing along the clear surface before the wall slowly collapsed under its own weight, shattering when it hit the floor.

They were freeing them. 

_Jesus._

John straightened himself, tugging frantically at his chains.

His eyes met Sherlocks who had turned towards him, mouth forming words he could not understand, then one of the soldiers stepped into the cell, grabbing the detective by the arm.   
John saw the soldier leaning in to the detective, talking intently to him, tugging him into the direction of the exit. Sherlock moved towards the wall separating him from John, pointing and speaking fast, moving backwards and away from the soldier.

The man gave John a quick look and then punched Sherlock just above the right temple, using a quick, calculated blow that the taller man had not expected, knocking him off his feet. He slung the stunned man over his shoulder, picking him up as if he weighed nothing at all.

“SHERLOCK!”

John watched helplessly as the soldier left with Sherlock slung over his shoulder, carrying from the cell into the hall and out the door, accompanied by two of the black-clad soldiers that were still standing there, guarding the entrance.   
John saw Moriarty stepping over remnants of the wall, grinning at John and sending him a kiss-hand, slipping past the remaining soldiers into freedom.

At the same time the two remaining men stepped up to his cell and one of them pulled out the same, small black explosives and attached them in a square at his door.

They were not going to leave him behind.

A sharp pang of relief washed through John's body as he turned away his face, listening to the muffled blows of the detonation that followed quickly, felt the shock wave roll over his body.  
He took a deep breath and turned back, hungrily watching as the cracks ran over the damned glass that had kept him imprisoned for so long, and closed his eyes just as it collapsed, hoping that no splinters would fly through the air to injure him. 

When he opened them he saw one of the soldiers making his way towards him and he raised his hands, indication how he was restrained, watching as the man quickly kneeled next to him and unbuckled his hands and feet within a few seconds.   
The moment he was free John scrambled off the bed while simultaneously ripping off the mask covering his mouth and got to his feet, following the men that were already heading out of the cell, to freedom.

 

He had to find Sherlock.

 

The next minutes passed in a blur, John running behind the soldiers through the exit door he had stared at for so many months into a maze of grey concrete corridors bathed in red, pulsating lights, the alarm around them never fading.  
The passed a metal door and then another, went up 4 flights of stairs, John secretly thankful for all the rigorous exercise he had put himself through to stay somewhat in shape. 

He needed it now not to fall behind. 

Once he thought he picked up gunfire in front of him, ignored the two dead soldiers he had to avoid as he hurried on, eyes focused on the black vests of the men freeing him in front of him.  
There was another turn, another heavy door and then cold air hit him, realizing he was outside, feeling cold, wet concrete and sharp pebbles under his feet. 

He was free.

A choked sound unwillingly left John's throat as the feeling of relief washed over him and he had to keep himself from sinking to his knees and kissing the ground.   
It was dark and raining outside, cold splatter hitting his naked skin.  
He continued to run, following the men that had freed him, knowing that one of them had Sherlock.

They went around the building and all of the sudden there was a large, black helicopter in front of them, the rotors turning fast already, sending a sharp wind in their direction. 

The soldiers climbed into the copter and John hesitated only for a moment, a black glove held out to him and pulling him inside where the men were sitting, and there was Sherlock, slumped over and securely strapped into his seat and John let himself fall into the empty seat next to him.  
The lights were dimmed into a nauseating green and John felt big hands fastening the seat belts around him as the helicopter took off, straight up into the air, pulling his stomach down.

They shot up and then seemed to arrive at a certain height and slowed, then the helicopter's nose dipped down and they flew out into the night, away from the lights of the military base beneath them.


	19. Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This is it.  
> 2,5 years in the making, my first Sherlock fanfic and it is finally DONE!!!  
> Thanks to all of you leaving kudos and comments, I could - literally - not have done it without you.  
> Without the gentle coaxing of some of you asking for me to continue this, I would have never finished it.  
> Remember, kudos and comments are love and are much appreciated.
> 
> So this is it, folks. 
> 
> Enjoy. 
> 
>  
> 
> x

The noise of the rotors were loud and due to the darkness inside the cabin John could hardly make out Sherlock, but they were free, and that was all that mattered. He reached over and grabbed his friends hand, taking his pulse, finding it slow and steady and breathed a sigh of relief.  
His doctor-instincts kicked in and he wanted to examine, to make sure that Sherlock was fine, that he had not received any grievous injury or a concussion, but in this darkness there was little he could do.

There was a nudge at his knee and when John turned someone passed him a grey bundle, a military-style blanket, realizing he was shivering slightly and he pulled it around himself after seeing that someone else spread one over Sherlock.

They were free. 

He closed his eyes, squeezing Sherlock's limp hand in his, ignoring the single tear that slid down his cheek.  
Somehow they had made it. 

He leaned back his head into the cushioned headrest, wondering what the hell happened. 

Within minutes Sherlock came to and John felt another wave of relief as he felt the detective move next to him, holding on to his hand and giving it a comforting squeeze to make sure he knew that John was there.  
The darkness of the interior and the noise of the rotors prohibited him from speaking to Sherlock, but he could feel how they were descending again already and he hoped that he would have a chance to check on him soon enough. 

They landed within another minute with a sharp bump and within seconds of landing the door to the outside was ripped open and quick hands unbuckled John and Sherlock, guiding them out of the helicopter down to the field they had landed in.  
John helped Sherlock down, never letting go of his hand, gripping the grey blanket tighter around himself as the cold, needling rain pounded down upon them.

They were standing in almost total darkness in the middle of a field, a soldier pointing them towards a much smaller, white helicopter about 200 meters away.  
John gave a sharp nod and he made his way towards it, never letting go of Sherlocks hand, holding him when he stumbled.  
200 m is not far but it felt like a lifetime, mud sucking at their feet, the rain pulling down the blanket over their shoulders, drenching their hair. 

They got help climbing into the much smaller but much more welcoming interior of the waiting helicopter, all bright lights and large, cream-leather chairs, John making sure Sherlock sat before taking a seat himself. Opposite them sat a tall, grim-looking man and a young woman who held a gun loosely in her hand upon her lap, sharp eyes never leaving John and Sherlock. 

The door was closed and they were off again, pulled up into the air and flying within minutes of having arrived.  
John waited for the helicopter to stabilize and smooth its ascent, waiting for his stomach to settle before his turned to Sherlock.  
He found the detective staring at the man opposite of him, but now he was in full-blown doctor-mode and snipped his fingers next to the detective's ear as he grabbed his chin, guiding him to look at John.  
He had to know that Sherlock was ok.  
Everything else would have to wait. 

“Sherlock, look at me.”

Reaction time was good.  
The Pupil dilation and movement seemed normal.  
There was no visible blood, just a little swelling and a small bruise over his left temple that did not seem too tender when he let his finger run over it, clinically, professional. The guy who punched him had been well trained.  
He tilted Sherlocks head forward, let his fingers run through the errand curls, searching carefully for blood.

“Seriously, John, I am fine.”

Sherlock sounded slightly annoyed.

Good. 

John held on to his lovers face if just for a moment too long and nodded. 

Sherlock's mouth pulled into a one-sided smirk, his eyes softened as they looked at John.

“I am fine.”

John let out a shuddering breath.

“Yeah. Good. Ok.”

His hand tightened in the back of his curls and pulled him closer, putting their foreheads together.

“Good.”

The man beside them cleared his throat.

John jerked back, and Sherlock turned, eyes hardening as he faced the tall, dark-haired man opposite him. His voice was cold as ice as he addressed him. 

“It's about bloody time.”

The man pulled his mouth into a grimace of distaste as his eyes flickered over Sherlocks wet hair down the sodden blanket, ruining the leather seats.  
“it is nice to see you too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his voice was a snarl.  
“6 months, Mycroft. 176 days, to be exact. What the hell took you so long? ”

“That....that's Mycroft?” John could not help but stare at the immaculate man with the hooked nose, mouth turned downwards who threw a quick glance at him, face expressing faint disgust before turning back to Sherlock. His clothing was impeccable, English-style tweet suit, a dark silken waistcoat, clean shaven, perfectly manicured hands.

His voice was low, arrogant.  
“I had to take care of the North Korea nuclear crisis when you disappeared, it was of national importance. By the time I returned you were already gone. ”

“6 MONTHS, MYCROFT!”

“Yes. Obviously I found you within hours of returning, but discussing your release with the army proved to be....futile. I must admit it was a mistake trying to reason with them in this respect, but there were protocols to be followed and I did not want to upset Mummy unnecessarily.  
Or the Queen, for that matter.”  
Mycroft shifted and raised his hand, studying his fingernails intently.  
“Also, you were in no immediate danger, so I was trying to be diplomatic.”

John was dumbfounded.  
Sherlock leaned in, eyes sparkling. 

“Fuck you, Mycroft. You did not know I was not in danger. When they moved me into John's cell that first time....”

“Yes.” Mycroft lowered his hand and his face was like a stone wall as he stared at John sitting opposite of him. If looks could kill, the doctor would be dead on the floor.  
“I was not informed about that until afterwards and I an assure you that certain people not only lost their _job_ over that little incident.”

Sherlock snarled at the word choice, hands clenching into fists. 

Mycroft made a sound, holding his hands up, palms outwards. A peace gesture. 

“I did warn them about doing something like that ever again. I was in close contact. Obviously they did not listen to me. It was a big mistake.”

Sherlock grit his teeth, John could hear how much he restrained himself from shouting. 

“You could have gotten me out much sooner!”

Mycroft's head snapped around, now fixating his brother with a cold stare.

“Yes. And start a war on home ground? The military would have know who was behind freeing you, and believe me, they made it very clear what would happen if I would try to get you out without their consent.”

Sherlock snarled. “Stop giving me this bullshit, Mycroft. You are the most powerful man in the country. You could have done it.”

“And I did get you out now, did I not?”

Mycroft took a deep breath, stared out the window into the darkness.

“You got yourself into a bigger mess than usual, Sherlock.” He turned back at his brother, studying him, mouth twisted into something like disgust.  
“Homo lupus creare. That's what they call it. It is a new thing, Sherlock, and there are only a few cases reported worldwide in the last years. Not that the public knows about it, oh no, but what did you expect me to do? Take you home to Baker Street and allow you to run amok whenever the full moon comes up? Lock you up in a basement and hope someone finds a cure? What? There is a man in South America that can change at _will_ , Sherlock, whenever he gets angry, and no one knows why or how.”

Mycroft ran his hand through his thinning hair. 

John noticed his fingers shaking, if ever so slightly.

“I wanted to know more details before I got you out. I was waiting for information, how this _disease_ is transmitted, maybe even a cure. Anything.”

He lifted his eyes and stared into his brother's light blue ones, not flinching at the anger he found there.

“I tried my best.”

“No.” The word came fast and was as hard as glass.  
“No. Never. If you had tried to do your best they would not have taken our clothes, they would have given us pain killers, you would have gotten me out of there in a week. A month. Not half a year.”  
Sherlock shook his head so hard his curls were flying.  
“Not your best, Mycroft. Not even close.”

Mycroft sniffed and looked out the window.

He did not answer.

There was silence for a minute or so, then the young woman handed Mycroft a thick envelope.

He nodded, turning back to Sherlock.

“We will land in approximately....” He looked at his wrist watch, expensive, gold.”... 7 minutes.”  
Mycroft opened the envelope, pulling out what looked like maps and papers.

“At the next stop I have an air plane waiting. You will have 15 minutes to shower, clothe yourself and have your microchips removed by my personal physician...”  
John's hand flew up to his neck, he almost had forgotten that they were tagged, like animals...  
“....and then you will fly to Canada.”

“Canada?” John could not help himself.

Mycroft ignored him, kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock as he passed him a laminated map. 

“You are going to the Yukon, to be exact. The plane will take you directly to the Ross River Airport where you will change into a smaller Cessna that will fly you to your final destination.”

He pointed on top of a map and John leaned in. It was a dot in the middle of a lot of green and brown, some blue. Lots of mountains, forests and few lakes and rivers.  
No cities.  
Or streets.  
Or anything.

“And where is our final destination?”

Mycroft pulled out another piece of paper and smirked. 

“Latitude: 62° 27' 26.1216 - Longitude -130° 48' 8.5104” 

Sherlock stared at the map while Mycroft continued. 

“It's in the middle of nowhere.”  
He sighed, deeply.  
“This land belongs to you now and I had a house build, complete with a secured basement for your changes. Everything you need is there. A plane will bring supplies every 2- 3 months. You will be safe. You and John.”

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft.

“What the hell are we supposed to do in the middle of nowhere?”

Mycroft took an exasperated sigh.

“I don't know, Moose-hunting? Bird watching? Ice-fishing, for all I care. The house is equipped with anything you could ask for, TV, Computers, a big library, any kind of sports- and hunting gear I could think of and you could wish for.”

Sherlock leaned back, glowering at his older brother. 

“There are no _people_.”

Mycroft grimaced.

“No. None for miles and miles around. I thought you would enjoy that, Sherlock. You don't like people.”

Sherlock hummed under his breath.

“Anyway, I could not keep you in England, not for a while, the military will be searching for you. I will do the best I can to keep them off your track. Moriarty is on the run and should distract them for a while. But once they found him they will be looking for you both.”

Sherlock leaned back. 

“How long?”

Mycroft pursed his lips, tilting his chin up if ever so slightly. He had his hands folded on his lap and now crossed his legs.

“I don't know. A couple of years, just to be sure. Until things have....calmed down.”

John could feel that the helicopter was going down again.

Mycroft shifted in his seat. 

“This is it, Sherlock. You have everything you need, and once it is safe I will make sure that you can come back to London. Or go to New York, or Sydney or Singapore, or anywhere you want to go for that matter.”

“Mummy will be upset.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes

“You can Skype her. Tell her you have a case. I will make sure that the line can't be tracked.”

They landed with a hard bump.

The doors were opened and a man on the outside waved to John and Sherlock, beckoned them to follow him.

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grimaced and opened his seat belts, left the helicopter without another word, ignoring the envelope with the maps and papers on the table. 

Myrcoft picked them up carefully and handed them to John who had got up to follow.

“Dr. Watson.”

Mycroft leaned in, his brown eyes staring intently, focused. 

“I will keep an eye on you, Dr. Watson. I have my eyes and ears everywhere and if you hurt my brother one more time, please believe me when I say that I have the resources to make you disappear very quickly. ”

He leaned in, eyes burning coals. 

“But first I would make you _hurt_.”

John did not doubt him for a minute. 

“You do not want me on your bad side, Dr. Watson. ”

John returned his stare.

“I will take care of him.”

Mycroft leaned back and folded his hands in front of him.

“Yes. If I did not believe that you would not be here today.”  
Mycroft waved his hand lazily, releasing him.  
“Goodbye now.”

Mycroft did not smile. 

Neither did John.

As he left the helicopter he could see the small plane at the end of a short runway, then quickly followed Sherlock who was waiting for him at the entrance to what looked like a tiny little airport. 

They were free.

They had a place to go.

And that was all that mattered.


	20. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya!  
> So, this chapter wasn't supposed to happen, but I have been reading some amazing, porny fanfiction and I was like, oh no, Sherlock and John did not have (happy) sex yet, we have to remedy this.   
> Immediately.  
> It took longer as I thought (as always) but here it is. 
> 
> This chapter is pure, unapologetic, dirty porn. 
> 
> Now, I know I make grammatical errors but I have personal reasons for not wanting to work with a beta. Thanks for understanding that I prefer it this way.   
> When I publish my first book I swear to God I will let someone proof-read it. 
> 
>  
> 
> x

John stepped up to the large window looking over the lake, nestled between the mountains, taking a sip from his steaming Earl Grey.

Peaceful.   
Beautiful.

Boring as fuck.

He took another sip and smiled. 

Perfect.  
At least for now. 

They arrived 3,5 months ago.  
Mycroft's plan had worked, so far.

The house he had built was next to a small lake on which the Cessna that brought supplies landed, surrounded by mountains and forests. The building was almost entirely made of glass, which John had struck as extremely odd when he first saw it, considering that two Werewolves were going to live in it. But, as it turned out, it was extremely _thick_ glass, and the enforced basement had kept them secure enough over the changes, just as Mycroft had predicted.

The house gave the feeling of wide-open spaces, no borders, as if they were living in the woods.  
It really was just right after being pent up in a prison for too long.   
It was liberating. 

John smiled and stepped back, taking another sip. 

He heard Sherlock hacking away at his computer, cursing under his breath.

When John woke that morning, he had been alone.   
Sherlock had been gone.   
Not that that was anything unusual.   
Sleeping with Sherlock Holmes did not bring along tender kisses and long snuggle-sessions or morning lie-ins.   
No.  
Not at all.   
It brought along having to wrestle the detective to bed like a 5-year old in the evenings, uneven sleep-cycles, flaying limbs and stolen covers and waking up alone 9 out of 10 times.

Then again, he himself screamed in his sleep, haunted by nightmares, 5 nights out of 10. 

Nobody was perfect.

John stepped out of the kitchen into the living room, a large, open space, the middle lowered into a nest-like area where large, white couches were placed.  
Sherlock was in what was supposed to be the dining area that they had functioned into a work space, the big wooden desk littered with papers. The detective sat hunched over his computer naked as the day he was born, errand curls tumbling over his face, glowering at his computer screen.

John took another sip of his tea. 

He walked around the table and behind Sherlock, bent down to kiss him on the top of his head.

Sherlock _growled_ at him.

John grinned. As much as they both wanted to pretend that their Were's had not changed who they were, little gestures like that challenged that point.

Growling.   
Nipping.   
Him being gay.

Little things. 

John leaned forward to peek over Sherlock's shoulder, reading what he had been typing.

_Lestrade.  
As always, you are an IDIOT...._

John winced and straightened. 

Nothing out of the ordinary then.

Mind you, he was happy Mycroft had put Sherlock in touch with Lestrade after he started throwing books at the wall during their third week here.   
Sherlock had troubles finding things to do apart playing the violin, and when John had tried introducing Sherlock to ornithology, he had thrown the “Birds of the Yukon Territory” right at his head.

The wound had _bled_.

So he would almost call it a blessing when Lestrade started sending Sherlock write-ups and pictures of of cold-cases he had dug up for him.  
Even though, knowing Sherlock and the atrocious emails he was sending Lestrade's way, he wondered why the DI even bothered? What kind of favours he owned Mycroft Holmes to put up with Sherlock, even if he was half the way across the globe?

John stood for a moment, taking another sip of his cooling tea, staring at the slightly freckled back of his lover.

The naked back.

The very _lovely_ naked back. 

He felt himself stir in his pants and grimaced.

Another side-effect of being a Were.

A heightened sex drive.

When they had first arrived at the cabin they had fucked on almost every available surface within the first two weeks. And then on the rest in the following months. 

Not the worst side-effect, by any means.

He set his cup down and then leaned in, breathing another kiss on top of Sherlock's head.  
Not trying to catch a glimpse of his limp cock.

Of course not. 

Sherlock growled again and swatted at him, as if he were a fly.

John grinned and caught his hand, holding it fast at the wrist, bringing it up to his mouth.   
Sherlock turned towards him, scowling.

“Let go, John, I have to get this response to Lestrade! He is such an idiot, I need to know if the sister was wearing pearl-earrings on the night of the murder....”

“Time difference, Sherlock. Remember? It's evening there now, he is not going to look at it until tomorrow. Which is really late tonight. Which means it can wait”

He pulled up Sherlock's hand to his mouth and grinned, then flicked his tongue lightly against the soft flesh of his palm. He pressed a kiss into Sherlock's hand, letting his tongue run along the lines ,relishing the smell, the taste.   
The detective had yet to shower, and he smelled of musk and coffee.

Sherlock's eyes hooded for a moment, then he frowned and twisted his hand back with a sharp pull. 

“I need to finish this email.”

John stepped back behind Sherlock who was staring at the browser, fingers hacking away at the keyboard like gun fire. 

_If the sister had large, black pearl-earrings you need to arrest her boyfriend-at-the-time, it is so obvious, I am not sure how you managed to become Detective Inspector being such a stupid id..fhaefshdvGRMKFJGXUIFOJK BWEJF..._

John leaned forward and bit into the soft flesh of Sherlock's neck, just slightly under the ear, not hard enough to break skin or even hurt, but strong enough to hear his Wolf yipping happily and Sherlock to yelp under him.

“He is not going to CHECK his email, Sherlock, I am, however, fully awake! And interested!”

John stepped back and waited.   
If Sherlock told him to leave again, he would.   
After all, this was a healthy relationship.   
But the tall, dark-haired man was sometimes a little slow to understand his advances. John waited for his lover to turn around slowly, eyeing him suspiciously under those dark-brown curls.

“Do you want to have sex, John? Now?”

John grimaced. 

Sherlock Holmes was not good reading certain situations, but it was a step in the right direction that he asked when he was not sure.   
He was just not very good at ... dirty talk.   
Or foreplay. 

John breathed out a sigh.

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes. I would like to have sex with you. Now.”

He leaned in, smiling mischievously.  
“To be exact, I would like to fuck you over this table.”

Sherlock's eyes widened and then they hooded.

“Oh.” Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment, then he slammed his laptop shut.  
“Okay then. There is lube under the Union Jack pillow.”

John took another deep breath and leaned in to check, noting that Sherlock's cock had thickened and lengthened considerably during their brief conversation. With his cold, detached demeanour John was not always sure if Sherlock was in the mood (even if he said he was), but his body always gave him away and he grinned wolfishly. 

“Right then. I will be right back.”

He went to the sofas just a couple of steps away and found the small bottle of lubricant just as Sherlock had said.   
John smiled at that. Since they had arrived the detective had taken to hiding little bottles of lube like a magpie all over the house, meaning it was always in reach when it was needed.

In the meantime the tall detective had cleared the table of the laptop and his tea mug, pushing papers to the far end.   
Then he sat down back onto his chair and waited for John.  
He was sporting an almost full erection at this point.

“Why don't you sit on the table, love?”

Sherlock hesitated for only a second and then nodded, pushing the chair away and hoping onto the table, his long, gangly legs underneath him. 

John slotted himself between said legs and leaned in, tipping his head back, Sherlock coming down to meet him, their mouths brushing each other, soft, tentatively. John smiled as he kissed Sherlock Holmes slowly at first, softly, placing open-mouthed kisses on his lovers face, not licking or tasting, not yet. He wanted to feel the textures of the man opposite him, his hands gliding around Sherlock's waist, his soft skin, pulling him closer. 

Then the kisses became deeper, more forceful as John leaned in further, stepping onto his toes, pushing Sherlock back. The detective groaned, licking into John's mouth, exploring with short, tentative licks, tasting, feeling. 

John's hand still held on to the lube and now he used his other to open his belt, pulling at the soft leather impatiently until the buckle came free. His fingers fumbled with the zipper of his trousers pulling at the tab, Sherlock's fingers now wandering under his shirt, drawing circles onto his skin. 

He helped Sherlock push his white T-shirt over his head, mussing his already chaotic hair further, and then John leaned in again, curling his fingers around the back of the detective's neck, pulling him close. 

“I am going to fuck you so hard.” John's voice was a rough whisper, and Sherlock grinned and then bit him in the lower lip, stopping before he could draw blood, his fingers scraping slowly down from John's shoulders towards his buttocks.   
John groaned into the taller man's mouth as he felt the tongue slide in between his lips, roam along his teeth, explore the inside of his mouth.   
Sherlock kissed the way he worked. Analytical. Chaotic. Unpredictable.   
Absolutely fascinating.

With his loose hand John snapped the bottle cap of the lube open and expertly squeezed a dollop of the cold liquid onto Sherlock's cock. The taller man winced at the coolness of the liquid, then groaned when John dropped the bottle onto the table and curled his fist around his erection tightly, spreading the lube evenly. 

“Fuck. John.”

John pulled Sherlock closer once more, slowly pressing his fist down along his erection until he could feel the nest of wiry curls, pulling a little further until he knew the stretch of the skin would almost be painful, then he loosened his grip and slid his fingers back up to the top, caressing the tip of Sherlock's cock with the palm of his hand.

Sherlock cursed into his mouth, kissing him deeper and sloppier, the detectives long fingers scraping over his nipples down to his open trousers, pushing the slender fingers into his pants.   
John was painfully hard and when Sherlock brushed over the head of his confined cock he twitched away, just to push himself back against those clever hands. 

Sherlock was beautiful to look at, mouth bruised, eyes hooded, already looking _ravished_ before they had even begun.

How did he deserve this?

John's other hand now started to wander down between Sherlock's legs, stroking teasingly over his testicles before dipping into the cleft between his arse-cheeks. He found the wrinkled entrance there and applied his lube-covered fingers, gliding them up and down along the flesh, not dipping in but applying the sticky fluid in concentrated circles.

Sherlock groaned into his mouth, and tried to shift, to press himself closer to John's slowly moving fingers, hitching his ass higher to allow easier access.

“Mmmmm...Greedy, aren't you?” John smiled. 

Sherlock made an affirmative noise, lashes fluttering over his blushed cheeks. 

John continued to circle his finger, loosening the tight hole, relaxing it by stroking again and again. He loved watching the detective squirm and could finally not hold himself back and pushed a finger into the tight heat that was Sherlock Holmes, like a vice around him, sliding in slowly until his first knuckle. 

Sherlock let out a shuttering breath, back bowing as he leaned his head back, John placing small, open-mouthed kisses down his neck, along his collar-bone, down to his nipples.   
He waited for Sherlock's body to stop rejecting him and suck him in instead, crooking his finger as he pushed in further. Sherlock was so beautiful and while John could not play any instruments, the man beneath him made the most beautiful noises when handled appropriately, better than any Stradivari in the world.   
He nibbled at his lovers nipples, dark, dusky flesh that pebbled under his teeth, pulling at them with small bites, smiling as Sherlock gasped.

It was delicious.

John continued to move his finger in small circles, pulling at the taunt rim, pushing back in and pulling out again at a much slower pace than his hand moving on Sherlock's cock. 

John watched Sherlock for a couple of moments longer, his eyes flicking between his lover's face, flushed, covered with a light layer of sweat and his hand pressed between his legs, drinking in how his legs shivered with the strain of keeping them apart. 

He kissed the pebbled nipples once more then straightened and let go of the long, slender cock, grasping the lube and generously applied more over his remaining fingers, watching as it slowly dribbled down to where his middle finger was already deeply lodged in Sherlock's ass.

He pulled it out all the way to his fingertip and added another finger alongside, drinking in the hitched sound that Sherlock made as he pushed both of them in, side by side.  
He watched as Sherlock squirmed beneath him, so beautiful.   
So not bored.

He pressed in his fingers slowly and pulled them out again and repeated the gesture again and again and again. He crooked his digits upwards, feeling along Sherlock's inside for his prostate, stroking it as he went in and out, smiling indulgently as precome gathered on the tip of his cock. 

He bent down and took Sherlock's prick into his mouth.

It was musky, the foreskin not fully pulled back and John relished how Sherlock's fingers dug into his hair as he slid his mouth down further until the cock hit the back of his throat, massaging the underside of it with his tongue.

“FUCK.”

John added another finger and pushed it alongside the first two into Sherlock's ass while pulling off his mouth of his cock, just using his tongue to flick the glands, circling them, sucking at them and very _very_ carefully nibbling at the tender flesh.   
Then he sucked the cock in again until it pressed at the entrance of his throat and John looked up, opening himself, as he took it all in, swallowing around the prick deep inside him, suppressing his gag reflex that was, as always, overpowering. 

Sherlock's fingers scrabbled at his hair, he made small sounds in his throat and John stroked all three finger along his prostate, loving the way that Sherlock's ass clenched around him, sucking him deeper, tightening around him. 

“JOHN!” Sherlock squirmed and shouted, his hair a mess as he straightened up, hands clawing into John's shoulder, scraping painfully over his old scar.  
“I am READY. NOW, John! NOW!”

John smiled as he pulled back, letting go of Sherlock's spit-wet cock with a low pop.  
“Greedy!” John repeated.

He knew he could prepare Sherlock more, but he was still a little loose from last night and John was sure that he could be careful enough not to injure him. 

Anyway, his detective liked it a little rough. 

He pulled out his fingers slowly, pulling at the rim, watching mesmerized as the hole closed slowly.

Sherlock was breathing hard, flushed chest rising and falling quickly, leaning to the side as he fished for the lube, clicking it open with unusually shaking fingers, drizzling a large amount into his palm. 

“Now, John.” His eyes sparkled, clear as water with the dark pupils blown, fixed on him.   
On John.   
He was not sure how he deserved his man to love him.   
To want to fuck him.   
But here they were.   
Then Sherlock's long fingers slicked the sticky liquid up and down his own erection that jutted out from the opening of his Jeans. 

They liked it that way. 

It was kind of dirty. 

Sherlock squeezed John's cock almost painfully, then he pulled his hands behind himself while leaning back, curling his long legs around John's hips.   
“Now”, he repeated.   
His dark voice was even raspier than usual.   
Even more sexy, if that was even possible.

John took his cock in his hand and guided himself between Sherlock's cheeks, pulling them apart with his other, swirling the tip slightly around the loosened muscle of his entrance.

His eyes flicked up, fixating into those galaxies of grey. 

And then John pushed in. 

Watching as those galaxies disappeared behind a curtain of lashes as his lovers eyes shuttered close.   
Sherlock's body resisted for a moment as his cock sunk into it, then it opened up and John grit his teeth as he pushed himself into that tight heat slowly, centimetre by centimetre, Sherlock's hands now coming up to dig into the flesh of his shoulders as his breath came faster and faster.   
Sherlock's ass was so tight around him and now started to suck him in, Sherlock pulling him forward with his legs behind his back, forcing him deeper and deeper, and John pulled him in for another kiss. 

Their teeth clicked together as they panted into each others mouth when John was finally fully seated and he held himself for a moment.

“Are you good?”

Sherlock nodded, his fingers clenching tighter into his skin, nipping at his mouth, their kisses turning into playful bites.

“God damn it, John, _MOVE_!”

And he did as he was told. 

John pulled out, gasping at the tight grasp of Sherlock's hole that clung to him and then sunk back in, keeping his movements slow and controlled, knowing fully well that soon he would not be able to.   
Sherlock's back bent, pressing his stomach towards him as his hips and legs pulled him closer, toes curling as he was fucked, slowly, carefully. 

John knew that Sherlock was not a slow- careful kind of guy. The detective usually liked it hard, fast, getting down to the point of ejaculation, which (how he once explained to John in a very serious matter) was, after all, the point of the whole Sex thing. 

Not today.   
At least not now.

John tightened his arms around Sherlock's upper body, pulling him closer to himself, leaning in to breath his heady scent. He pumped his hips slowly, giving a little twirl at the end, knowing from Sherlock's breath hitching when he hit his prostate full-on.  
The wet sound of flesh hitting flesh was loud in the room as John continued to fuck into the pliant body in front of him.   
Slowly.   
In and out.   
In and out.   
And again.  
“Come ON, John!” Sherlock whined, pulling him closer by his hair, his other hand painting scratches along his back, hot breath at his ear as his lovers started to growl. 

In and out.   
In and out.   
A little twirl at the end. 

Urgent fingers pressing lines into his back, beckoning him to go faster. 

And John gave in. As usual.  
He was only human (and Werewolf) after all.

He picked up his rhythm, fucking faster and faster, in and out, again and again, pressing his forehead into Sherlock's neck as he breathed in the hot scent of his MATE, his LOVER, his everything.   
He fucked like Sherlock was made to take everything he had to give, without caution or a care, and Sherlock clung to him like he was drowning, making low, gurgling sounds as John's cock hit his prostate again – and again – and again.   
John growled as he slid his arms under Sherlock's long legs and pushed them up, over his shoulders, folding the detective almost in two, opening him up even further. Sherlock held on to John's neck for dear life as he threw his head back, dark curls bouncing with every hard thrust.

“Harder. HARDER”.

And there was always harder. 

John pulled Sherlock closer, pressing his forehead into his lover's sweat-slick neck, biting down hard into the soft skin beneath him, drawing sweet blood.  
He could feel Sherlock stiffen underneath him as the detective started to come, clenching down hard onto his cock, his head thrown back as he howled towards the ceiling.

John continued to pump his hips, sliding in and out of the pliant body, slick flesh clinging to him as Sherlock continued to pump seed onto his own stomach. And then John came, shouting himself, biting down once more as his rhythm started to stutter, pumping hot semen into Sherlock, marking him, claiming him as he had done so often before. 

It was glorious. 

His hips stuttered as he continued to come, to ejaculate for what seemed for forever, narrowing time and space down to a pinprick, down to the flesh between his legs, the soft skin underneath his fingers and the galaxies in the eyes of his lover. 

Finally both men stilled, arms clinging to each other, hot skin cooling in the fresh air, John licking absently at the slightly bleeding bite wound he had left on Sherlock's neck.   
He kissed the wound and reminded himself to have another look at it later, to disinfect it when Sherlock had taken his shower. He hugged that warm, pliant body beneath him for a long moment, breathing in the scent of Sherlock, warm and spent, so unresisting under his fingers. 

It was rare and beautiful. 

There was a moment of silence and then Sherlock started to squirm in his arms.

John sighed , taking another long sniff of the musky, sweaty body beneath him and then reluctantly let go. He slowly pulled his softening cock out of his lover's body, appreciating silently how the hole closed once he had pulled out, keeping his seed deep inside him.   
It pleased him and his Were immensely. 

He gave Sherlock another hug just to be pushed away, watching as the detective hopped off the table as if nothing had happened. 

“Get off me, John, I need to finish my report to Lestrade.”

Yeah. 

Sherlock did not do the post-coital snuggle-sessions.   
Or lie-ins.   
Or cuddles or kisses or any other of that sentimental crap. 

But nobody was perfect.

And John loved that wanker either way. 

 

The end 

(For real)


End file.
